


If the slipper fits

by try_reset (technorat)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Cinderella AU, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Secret Identity, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-09-11 21:03:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 55,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9024721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technorat/pseuds/try_reset
Summary: Armitage is the son of a kitchen woman, a lowly servant in the Hux House. Ben Organa is the Prince of the kingdom, as much as he hates the responsibility that comes with his name.They meet one day, in the depths of the Woods.In two years' time, the Royal Family's Ball will occur in the dead of winter, to search for a spouse for the Prince.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Odd numbered chapters are with Hux's PoV while even numbered chapters are with Ren's PoV.  
> Additional story elements are borrowed from Ash by Malinda Lo and A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas. The more prominent elements, including portions of the map and location names, are taken from Ash.
> 
> Standard warnings for any Cinderella based fanfic... although, Hux is certainly not as nice or kind as Disney's Cinderella.
> 
> No particular warnings for this chapter. A death occurs but is not heavily mentioned or described.
> 
> A huge shout out to my beta chalkroses.tumblr.com !!!

In little Arkanis, the Woods were always just a short walk from the Hux Manor, not even separated with an iron fence as they are in more populated regions. He knew those dense forests well, winding his thin body between branches, ignoring how they caught against his cheeks and against his long, red hair.

He could not remember his mother, but he could remember her book of fairy tales well.

They spoke of grieving little girls gone out for walks through the Woods, getting snatched up by fairies.

He is a boy—but with his long hair and slender stature, perhaps the fairies wouldn't mind so much? Not when he grieves for something he can't quite remember. Not when her grave has already been lost, somewhere within the Woods.

“There you are,” a relieved voice calls.

He turns his head, stubborn frown growing upon his lips.

“It's okay Alis,” he says stubbornly, nails digging into the palms of his hands. “I've just been out for a walk.”

She shakes her head, ringlets of brown hair bouncing against her sooty face. “It's dangerous in the Woods... You shouldn't be out here.” Her palm is cold and sweaty, even through the cloth of his shirt. “Armitage, you know you're not allowed to leave the property.”

He gives a soft sigh, throwing one last glance over his shoulder at the Woods.

…

But little Arkanis is not their home for long.

The Republic had won the long and dreadful war, absorbing the Empire's Arkanis into the outreaches of her new country.

“We're moving,” the Lady of the house announces. “About time too... It'd be a shame to lose any business.”

Armitage doesn't say a word, leaning close to the ground, stoking the flames within the fireplace. Behind the Lady, Alis is busy, carefully combing golden locks.

“Ouch,” the Lady says, snatching Alis's wrist. “Careful,” she says, voice so very sharp. “You do want to work with our household, don't you, dear?”

Alis stills, brown eyes widening with fright. “Sorry, my Lady,” she says, keeping her voice low and meek.

“Hmm? What was that?” the Lady says, nails digging into already scarred flesh.

“Sorry!” Alis squeaks. “I am so very sorry. I will endeavor to be more careful.”

The Lady drops her hand. “Good.” She tilts her head, catching Armitage's gaze. “And you--” she says, voice growing nasal, “--haven't you been dallying long enough?”

“Sorry, my Lady,” Armitage mumbles, ducking his head in his hurry.

Once they are finished with the normal tasks for the Lady—Armitage cleaning here and there and Alis helping the Lady to dress in one of her fine gowns—they move on to the tasks of the day.

It is difficult, packing the Lady's traveling bags. They are absolutely stuffed with fine gowns and jewelry.

She keeps an eye on them, fanning herself with some pink silk fan, lips pursed, giving her a cross expression.

As if they'd steal from the Lady...

Who would be so foolish?

“Armitage,” Alis says, voice hushed and head lowered. “Come along... let us pack the carriage.”

Most things within the house would be left behind. Who would need old furniture when the Capital awaited?

“Yes, Alis,” Armitage says, obediently following in her footsteps.

Alis takes one end of the Lady's traveling bag and Armitage takes the other. The boy—thin and sickly looking, pale as a slip of paper—does not quite carry a fair share of the luggage. The two struggle down the steps.

“Move aside.” The horseman takes one end of the luggage from Armitage.

“Weak,” Lord Hux says, rolling his eyes. “How useless.”

“Sorry sir,” the boy says, ducking his head.

Lord Brendol Hux had been a merchant by trade, coming into a large sum of money with each deal. He'd made his way into society within the Empire. He would surely make his way into society within the Republic.

The only true problem would arise later, with his lack of a suitable heir.

No daughters or sons from his wife.

…

The ride to the capital is a long one.

Armitage falls asleep, leaning upon Alis. He must drool too, awakening to find her shoulder damp.

The woman only plays with his long hair, giving him a small smile.

“Go back to sleep,” she instructs.

And so he does.

…

Things continue as normal for five years.

Armitage is twelve years old when the Lady of the house's belly begins to show.

The servants gossiped amongst one another.

The doctors and philosophers hadn't quite been able to aid with the Lady's problem in conceiving.

Just one visit from the local witch—a greying man who called himself a _Sith—_ and several cups of tea had been all that it had took to get her to conceive.

A glorious day for the Hux household.

Armitage fists his hands, nails digging into his skin.

Alis forces his hand to open. Her smile is small, not meeting her eyes.

“This... will be a good thing,” she promises. “You'll see.”

…

Twin boys are born, neither inheriting the red of Lord Hux's hair.

But the Lady of the house does not make it.

Brendol Hux does not leave his quarters for days.

…

How can they go on?

Armitage scrubs the kitchen floors, knees and elbows aching. His red hair is tied up and away from his slowly reddening face.

The Lord of the house had fired a third of the servants, the very same servants who dared to suggest he remarry, if only for the sake of his twin boys. Old maids and chefs and horsemen that Armitage had grown accustomed to have had to take their leave of the house. But their tasks remain, falling on the shoulders of those servants who are allowed to stay.

He is twelve years old— _at least he thinks he still is—_ and taking the tasks of a few.

It's hard work... But the hard work spares Alis, whose knees are achy and nearly constantly bruised, and Elise, who is growing very old, and Gertrude, whose always been a bit forgetful and a bit overworked, and Armitage thinks he can bear it.

…

It takes a period of fours years of grieving for Brendol Hux before he returns to society properly.

Alis takes care of his heirs—Alastair and Barnaby—just as she had taken care of baby Armitage.

Lord Hux goes off on a trading run, seeking white fur pelts from the North, within or even beyond the treacherous Woods.

“And what shall I bring as gifts for you?” Brendol Hux asks, taking a knee and speaking with his tottering children.

Barnaby chews on his own hair, brown locks long enough to curl cutely—though it is hard for them to do so when so damp.

Alastair's green eyes shine spectacularly. “Papa,” he calls, voice high and bubbly, stepping forth away from his minder. “A toy!” he demands. “Bring back a toy, something... soft.”

“Very well,” Lord Hux says, though he does not look particularly pleased at the thought.

And then he and his caravan of horses and carriages are off.

…

It is not the most successful venture the Lord had begun, but the household manages.

Armitage frowns to himself, taking on more responsibility.

Slowly, the amounts of servants the Hux family has dwindles. Even he notices.

The coffers aren't as lined as Lord Hux would like for them to believe.

…

He is maybe sixteen when he first sees a tutor.

The man who arrives at the Hux House is old and thin, face so very sharp, high cheekbones so very prominent. But his eyes shine with a sort of intelligence.

His heart pounds when he first sees the visiting gentleman.

Armitage is dressed in the best of his uniforms—something of dark, rough fabric still too loose on his form—but his shoes are falling apart on his feet. The stitching has worn off on the left and each step makes an awkward sound, as the bottom of the shoe falls away.

“Hello, sir,” he says, standing properly straight and serious faced.

The man raises a brow. “Hello,” he says. “My name is Wilhuff Tarkin. Who might you be?”

Armitage's mouth goes dry at that. He schools his face, hoping that he does not give a bad appearance, even with the soot that's smudged about his face and his arms. “Hello Mr Tarkin,” he says, cowed. “I'm... my name is--”

“Just a servant,” Alastair's voice rings out, clear as bells. “Ignore Ari, _Professor_ Tarkin. He doesn't know anything.”

At the child's side is the shyer Barnaby and Lord Hux himself.

He steps forwards, ignoring Armitage's presence and shakes hands with the professor.

“It's good to have you, Wilhuff,” Lord Hux says, genuine warmth coating his words.

“I thought I'd have two students, not three,” Tarkin remarks, raising a brow.

“You do have two students,” Lord Hux says, pushing forth his twin boys. “Armitage,” he says sternly, “go back to work. You'll not pay your mother's debts by being idle.”

“Yes sir,” Armitage says, bowing his head and scuttling off.

…

He sees different tutors over the years, Tarkin returning nearly once a week for lengthy sessions on Imperial history, along with their newer, more adopted, Alderaan history.

Alastair's become something of a scholar now, even at his young age, dragging smaller, more colorful books with him wherever he goes.

“Ari,” he says from where he lies on a couch, finger pointed at some word. “Do you know what this says?”

He looks close, eyes drawn more towards the colorful pictures—a knight in dark armor upon an equally dark horse. Majestic and beautiful... Armitage's fingers itch to trace the surface of the image.

“No, young master,” Armitage says, hating how inferior he is to someone so much younger.

Alastair snorts, already knowing.

It'd be nice, knowing how to read, Armitage finds himself thinking.

The books that weigh heavily upon the library's shelves are large, thick with knowledge of sorts. His mother's collection of fairy tales—stories that she'd written herself—must lie somewhere in that room...

But he'd never find it.

…

Armitage thinks he is perhaps twenty-four when a trading venture does not go as planned.

It is not just simply an unsuccessful trading venture.

It is a dreadful one.

Brendol Hux returns to his estate burdened by debts.

The tutors don't return.

Talk is done, behind closed doors, of more servants being fired...

…

The talk seems to come with action, far too soon for Armitage's liking.

Alis leaves soon enough, a sad smile on her face as she touches Armitage's shoulder. He struggles not to shrug it off, shuddering. “Remember,” she instructs. “Lord Hux has taken care of you all these years and your mother before you... Remember to take care of him too.”

Perhaps his face does not show proper enthusiasm for that statement because Alis laughs, the lines around her eyes crinkling softly, the rest of her looking so unsure..

“If not for Lord Hux then... be selfish. The fairies help those who have spent their lives helping others,” she says, speaking of old Arkanis fairy tales, tales that his mother had supposedly adored.

“Alis,” he says, not unkindly. “I think I am too old for fairy tales... I am... merely working to pay off the debts.”

The life debts, as he'd heard Professor Tarkin describe them once.

A man too—tall and gangly, and still so very thin. What fairy would lend him aid? Especially in financial matters?

Him.

The bastard son of a dead kitchen woman.

“I miss when you were little and could not be kept from the Woods,” she says, sadness and fondness too clear in her voice. “You really believed in fairies.”

“Alis, please,” he says, stiff-lipped, not really able to meet her eyes. “I was a child.”

“And... so very innocent,” she says, nodding. Satisfied. “I think your mother would be proud of you—even if she saw how stoic and serious you've become. Take... care of yourself. Let yourself have fun sometimes... It's not always about hard work.”

…

Alis was not exactly right with her parting words.

The Woods were long and deep, stretching about the continent. The Woods was just outside the iron fence that surrounds Lord Hux's land, so very close to Capital City.

Armitage wipes his flour-dusted hands on his apron, untying it and hanging it in its proper place.

Alastair and Barnaby, now sixteen and just about at the age for their debuts into society, could bring the Hux family out of their debt, if they only married well. Lord Hux had taken them out into town, quite possibly buying them another set of winter cloaks or some other gaudy garment.

It'd be important for them to dress the part, if they were to marry into better, wealthier families.

Alastair had inherited limp and straight hair from his father along with his mother's golden coloring while Barnaby had been unlucky to inherit plain brown hair, though pleasantly curled.

The breeze is refreshing, even if the rough, outreaching branches are not.

Armitage winds himself through the trees, coming to a river bank.

He pulls off his thin and tattered cloak and places it on the ground, lying upon it. He'd packed a meal too to go along with the pleasant atmosphere. He shudders—the ground so very cold.

He'd get used to it soon.

The Woods were worth braving the chill.

He unwraps his meal: a slice of bread, leftover from yesterday's loafs, a small hunk of cheese, and a bit of meat. His stomach grumbles in anticipation of the meal.

Before he can even take a bite from the cold meat, he hears an inquisitive meow.

“Oh,” Armitage says, meeting the green eyes of the stray he'd come to know. “It's you.”

The cat approaches, sitting down with an air of dignity, tucking her tail over her little paws, and meows again.

He tosses his chunk of meat to her.

The greedy little cat tucks into her meal, and so does Armitage, staring out as sunlight strikes the oranges and yellows of Autumn's leaves.

…

It's at night, when Armitage brushes Barnaby's hair that the boy begins to speak, cheeks bright and warm, glowing with some sort of happiness.

“--you should have seen it, Tidge,” he says, clasping his hands together. “We drove by the Royal Palace... It's gorgeous.” Barnaby's voice is small, filled with wonder.

Armitage has never seen the Royal Palace—he'd never truly been anywhere other than the Market and the Woods.

He hums, a wordless nothing to keep Barnaby placated.

“They say the Prince will be looking for a spouse,” Barnaby chatters. “In two years' time,” he says, nodding to himself. “He'll be twenty-four then...”

And Barnaby would be eighteen, the proper age for one to marry.

Armitage untangles ribbons from his hair, placing them to the side. He hesitates. “You aren't thinking that you'll marry the Prince, are you?”

“Just because you'll never marry doesn't mean we won't,” Barnaby admonishes, shifting under Armitage's hands. “Hux is a noble name, even if our family hasn't been in the best of positions lately...”

An understatement, if Armitage had ever heard one.

“We'll surely be sent an invitation to the Prince's Ball,” Barnaby says. But he doesn't sound so sure.

Armitage brushes out his hair one last time, carefully.

“Good night, sir,” Armitage says, excusing himself from the room.

Barnaby doesn't say a word, just sits there, on the edge of the bed, staring out of his window and towards the night sky.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, a huge shout out to my beta, chalkroses.tumblr.com !!
> 
> This time, Ben's PoV.
> 
> Edit 3/13/17: added in fanart from flukeoffate.tumblr.com !! I think I swooned a little when I saw the scene come to life !  
> http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/post/158342899836/cinderella-au-kylux-by-flukeoffate-on

It's hardly dawn when he wakes, rolling himself out of his bed and stretching. Ben knows he must be quick—quick enough to beat any of the servants that tend to his needs. He hates it, hates being cleaned and stressed by strangers being paid, told what he's to do for every hour of the day.

Only the Captain of the guards understands, turning a blind eye at his repeated 'borrowing' of her horse.

But in all fairness, Saber is an adventurous horse, unafraid of even the Woods.

And Ben could never know how deep into the Woods he'd go, sometimes surrounded entirely by trees and darkness and the sounds of forest animals, all blending in perfect harmony.

It's nothing abnormal for him, slipping out of the castle, a heavy fur cloak upon his back.

Saber is ready for the trip, nickering softly within the stables. He frees her quickly, patting her neck reassuringly.

“Ready for a ride?” he asks.

She neighs, answering.

“Alright,” Ben says, clambering on top of the horse and kicking her sides.

She sets off, already heading towards the first few trees leading to their normal path within the Woods, overlong branches whipping at their cheeks, at their sides.

*

He loves the feel of wind rushing through his long, tangled hair. Loves the way leaves crunch underneath Saber's footfalls.

He might push her hard at times but she loves it too, letting out a nicker and a neigh as they ride. Ben smooths a hand down her flanks, patting her, as they continue. His bow and quiver of arrows lie heavy against his back.

He is no fool.

Ben knows just what the people think of the always angry Prince Organa. How the common folk grumble and groan, longing for Duke Skywalker's daughter to return, to be found again, and-- and-- if only she could be the heir to the throne...

He pushes Saber harder, a stray branch scratching his cheek.

The Woods extend throughout the continent, thicker near the edges and near the Capital. It's there that wild animals run about amongst the faeries—large deer, plentiful rabbits, others still. While the Jedi claimed the area to be too dangerous, Ben has never found much trouble.

He hears a rustle, ducks underneath a branch.

There, a deer stands, antlers long and slender and surely worth a small fortune. The deer's pelt hints at its youth, though its size just so happened to be abnormally large, much larger than anything Ben had seen.

It's not time for the annual Hunt. But if he could just... hit it.

The deer stands before a river. It turns away from Ben, looking at something else.

Ben reaches behind himself, slipping an arrow from its quiver and bringing it to his bow. His archery skills were lacking. But this couldn't be pure luck. This was a _sign_.

He pulls back, focused on the deer's thick brown fur. A shot just above the heart would be a killing shot, a shot to prevent excess agony for the creature. Its ears ruffle oddly.

Does it know?

Does it know it will die?

Ben holds his breath, eyes widening.

“Leave!” someone yells, running alongside the riverbank, waving his arms madly. “Go on! Leave!”

The deer startles, returning to the trees.

“What the hell?” Ben mutters, putting away the bow and arrow, heart hammering in his chest.

The man approaches the river, staring across it, where Ben hides between the trees. He's angry, his youthful face pulls into a nearly venomous sneer. He wears all black, as if he is a mourner, a thin cloak wrapped about his shoulders, hood covering the top of his head. One hand clenches the black fabric of the cloak, fingers white.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” the newcomer scolds. “No hunting is permitted now. Deers can only be slaughtered during the Great Hunt.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Fancy yourself the protector of innocent creatures then?” he calls. “I could ask you the same. Who are you?” He looks the man up and down again, now noticing the grey dust smeared about the man's face. Dust? Ash? “I thought peasants were not allowed in the Woods when no Festivals are occurring.”

“I've done no harm,” the man says. “You, however, nearly killed one of Queen Organa's protected deer.”

Ben rolls his eyes again. His own mother wouldn't punish him for one of her pointless laws.

The man groans, throwing his hands up in the air, annoyance nearly tangible. “You hunters are all the same.”

Oh.

The man doesn't know who he is. The man—who must have grown up underneath a rock or something!--could not recognize his own country's prince!

“Really?” Ben says, flashing a toothy smile, heart beating quickly at the thrill of it all. “Have you run into many hunters in these parts of the Woods before?”

The man scoffs and turns away, walking back in the direction he came, wordlessly, soundlessly.

*

Sneaking out of the castle is somewhat easier than returning undetected.

Ben hurries, pulling Saber at his side, hood up.

“And where do you think you're going?”

Han pulls the hood off of Ben's head and spins the boy around, scowling.

“Hey dad,” Ben manages.

“Hey yourself,” Han says. He smacks Ben's shoulder. “What were you thinking? Running off again? You missed your lessons. Worse, you made everyone worry.”

Han spins on his heels, walking towards the castle. He doesn't even wait to see that Ben is following—of course the wayward prince follows. No need to hear repeats of his parents' disciplinary speeches, or, worse, his uncle's.

“I'm old enough,” Ben scoffs, running a hand through his long hair, tugging at the roots.

“Old enough to be kidnapped like your cousin and leave the kingdom without any sort of line of succession?” Han shakes his head. “You can't be reckless like that.”

Ben scowls behind his old man.

As if Han really cares, some part of him thinks.

Han Solo, greatest rogue in the nation and Consort to the Queen, is afraid of his only son.

*

Phasma tosses him his saber. “Once more,” she says, almost teasingly. She hasn't even broken a sweat.

He snatches it out of the air. A bead of sweat trickles past his temple. “We've been at it for a while,” Ben complains. An hour, maybe more. A solid lesson in sword fighting that had followed several other lessons of varying topics.

Swords, politics, manners—it all grows tedious when packed so tightly together.

“Don't tell me you're growing tired, Prince Ben.”

He scowls at that.

Phasma relents. “Fine,” she says. “Our lesson is over.”

Ben drops the sword and stalks off, huffing.

“You're going to the Woods then?” Phasma calls after him. “Careful where you thread, lest you step foot in a faerie circle.”

“Sounds tempting right about now,” Ben snaps, sending a nasty glare her way.

It doesn't work. It never has. Phasma is one of equal standing in height and strength if not title. If she was ever truly threatened by him, she would deal with it like she deals with everyone: by trouncing them in a duel.

*

He finds himself riding in the direction of that river from the other day, the sun shining idly through the trees. It's not enough to warm him, but thankfully he has his cloak. The branches part to reveal the clearing.

Ben freezes atop his horse.

Someone lies so very still beside the river.

He slips off of Saber's side, leading her to the water and leaving her there.

“Hey,” Ben says, reaching out, fingers brushing rough black fabric. With a jolt, he realizes just who he's seeing.

That same antagonizing commoner, thin cloak wrapped about their thin frame. He lies, one fist resting beside his head, mouth just slightly opened. He breathes, quietly and smoothly. His skin is chilly to the touch.

And yet he does not stir.

Ben sighs. Slowly, he removes his fur cloak and places it atop of the sleeping man.

“Let's go,” he says, turning to Saber.

Most people did not dare to enter the Woods, not without the guidance of Alderaan's hunters and huntresses and the blessing of their ruler, not with folklore of faeries and other creatures so abundant.

Whoever the man was, he didn't seem to care for all that.

Interesting, but infuriating. A chance to talk to someone without them behaving differently because of his blood.

He rolls his eyes.

“Wait.”

Ben freezes in place, one foot in its stirrup. He turns his eyes, eyes wide with guilt.

The sleeping man is awake now, the hood of his original cloak falling back from his head. His hair is long and copper, spilling over his shoulders. He sits upright, Ben's fur cloak falling into his lap.

The man narrows his eyes, looks down at the cloak in his lap. “You gave this to me? Why?” The way he says it makes it sound accusatory, as if Ben had wanted something bad to happen.

“You looked cold,” Ben says.

The man is not impressed with that answer, rolling his eyes at his prince. “And you? Now you're cold.”

Ben snorts. “Keep my cloak. It'll keep you warm.”

“Fine.” The man takes the fur cloak and wraps it around his shoulders. He stands, picking up his own tattered one and shakes it. Slowly, he approaches Ben, a scowl upon his face. “Here,” he says, placing the black cloak about Ben's shoulders. “Then you'll keep mine.”

Ben's mouth goes dry with shock, words lost on him.

*

And of course he gets a lecture when he returns.

How he cannot lose his cloak so easily.

How so many people worked day after day to have enough to even afford such a luxurious thing, make of fine furs imported from a different kingdom.

How he is so arrogant, so disrespectful to roll his eyes at his father, a former trader and smuggler who just so happened to marry into royalty.

How he'd never understand such a struggle.

He picks up a chair and throws it against a wall, it falling apart upon impact. He shakes with anger, with annoyance—wanting to destroy more. He doesn't have his sword, but he thinks about going to find it, going to train himself to exhaustion, going to--

“Ben,” Leia says, coming to her feet. She is tight-lipped and angry.

But she also must be afraid, something inside of Ben thinks. How sad, for his own mother to be afraid of him.

“Go to your room,” she says, absolutely furious with him. “Master Skywalker and Master Kenobi will not be pleased to hear of this. You will not have your advanced swordsmanship lessons until you learn some maturity. You are the Prince, aren't you? Act like one.”

Ben turns upon his heel, snarling at her.

“When will you act like a Queen?” he snaps.

Leia is unmovable, unshakeable, unsurprised by his reaction. “You are the Prince of Alderaan. You will behave like the future ruler our kingdom deserves. You will learn control.”

He leaves.

*

A week of days filled with meditations and lessons and agonizing boredom.

His Uncle looks at him strangely. “I too have struggled in my youth,” the old Jedi says. “And now as well...”

Ben doesn't say anything. He scowls, shuts his eyes.

Breathes in, breathes out.

Doesn't feel calm, like his Uncle thinks he should.

*

He wakes up early, filing out of the castle, the stranger's rough black cloak wrapped about his form. The hood conceals his head well enough.

It's like Saber already knows what he's here for, nudging him until he can open the stable door. In no time, they're flying, rushing through the Woods.

Ben ducks underneath the odd branch, leaning close to the horse. He can't help the string of laughter that escapes. Freedom! What a wonderful feeling.

And once again, he finds himself at the same river. Ben slides off of Saber and leads her to the water. She snorts once, as if annoyed by the gesture, and drinks. _I can do this on my own, thank you very much_ , her eyes seem to say.

"So, you've come back?" a man calls, sitting at the riverside. In his lap, an orange cat sits, looking smug. His hood is pulled back, revealing long orange hair pulled into a low ponytail.

"Are you here to scold me more?" Ben asks, patting Saber's flanks again.

"I don't see any weaponry, so I suppose not." The man raises a brow, appraising Ben from head to toe. "Unless you become a true savage and attempt to rip out an animal's throat with your teeth."

Ben can't help the snort of laughter. "And where did you come up with that?"

The man shrugs. "I can just tell you're a brute, ready to dissolve into a tantrum at any moment."

"Have you experience with brutes then?" Ben asks.

"Enough," the man says. "What's your name, huntsman?"

It would not do good to tell the peasant his real name. Ben panics in the moment, heart pumping much too loudly.

"Kylo Ren," he answers.

"An odd name," the man says, stroking the cat's fur. It curls up in his lap, comfortable, purring rather loudly.

"Well, what's yours?"

The looks from Ben to the horse, face rather impassive.

"Hux," he answers.

"Hux," Ben repeats. "And you're the one calling my name weird? How do you spell that?"

Hux gives him a strange look, as if the spelling should be obvious.

Hucks?

Huks?

Hux?

Hucts?

More possibilities exist…

"Well, what brings you to this river Hux?" Ben asks.

The man shrugs simply. "It's usually peaceful," he says. "When you aren't here."

"That isn't fair to me. I'm hardly ever here," Ben protests.

That gets an odd bit of laughter from Hux's throat. He turns his head away as he does it, as if meaning to hide his laughter.

"Well, when you are here, it certainly feels a lot less peaceful."

"If you're seeking peace," Ben says, "then you should try meditation. It's a popular method so close to Capital."

Hux hums. "Yes, well, I'd rather not. I'll leave that to the witches."

"The witches?" Ben repeats incredulously.

Hux waves a hand. "Sith. Jedi. Whatever you call them here."

It should make him angry -- angry with the disrespect shown towards his family, his uncle.

But it doesn't.

Hux talks to him plainly, unafraid. The peasant would quake in his boots if only he knew who he was talking to.

A secret like that would bring no harm to either of them.

Far off, somewhere beyond the Woods, two horses trot, their master urging them along.

Hux stand, urging the cat out of his lap. It does not really obey as he pushes it off, meowing its protests.

"It was surprisingly pleasant to speak with you, Ren," Hux says, "but I am afraid I'm needed elsewhere."

"Huh?" he barely manages before Hux takes off, dashing his way through trees and other plant-life.

Saber nudges her face against Ben's back, as if encouraging him to catch up to Hux.

He sighs, turning to face her, resting his face against her own. "And then what?" Ben says. "Ask for his permission to escort him where he is needed?" Ben snorts.

As if his newfound acquaintance would allow him to do a kindness like that.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning, in the very last section [...At noon, Lord Gyyll appears...] there is a very brief mention of the corpse of an animal.
> 
> Once again, huge shoutout to my beta-reader chalkroses.tumblr.com
> 
> I made a moodboard for this fic a little while ago, but I never added the link, so here it is:
> 
> http://gaygalaxyguy.tumblr.com/post/154956550235/if-the-slipper-fits-a-kylux-cinderella-au

Armitage returns to the Hux House just in time, hiding himself in the kitchen. Freshly baked loaves of bread have been left to cool beside an opened window. He moves the rack of the over, placing them on a bare table.

He reheats the soup he's already cooked, stirring hurriedly, and adding in another dash of spice.

He turns, pumping water from the sink and pouring it into a kettle, preparing for tea. Fresh milk is stored in the conserver, blue and fatty—his mouth waters just looking at the jug, so he tears his eyes away.

The front door opens, bringing in cool air and idle chatter.

Armitage brushes his hands against his apron before clasping them behind his back, straightening his posture. “Welcome back, sirs,” he says, stepping into the kitchen doorway. “Lunch will be ready in just a moment--”

“Armitage,” Lord Hux scolds, his two sons practically plastered at his side, carrying packages, cheeks flushed with excitement. “I've told you, the meal should be ready when we are here.”

“Sorry sir,” Armitage says, bowing his head.

Lord Hux clicks his tongue and sighs. “Go carry the purchases up to the boys' rooms. Alastair, Barnaby, follow him.” He takes a stern tone, as if thinking that Armitage would dare to steal some clothing from the Hux family.

Armitage holds back a snort, just barely.

As if he would fit into the clothing. Everything, everything seemed to be too short and too large on his beanpole of a frame.

He accepts the bags from both of the boys, grunting softly under the weight. It's heavier than Armitage had expected. It cannot simply be fine cloaks, but perhaps more winter clothing? Perhaps proper shoes?

“It's so exciting,” Barnaby says, practically buzzing in his boots. His soft curls bounce about his head, eyes shining happily. “Alastair has found a suitor! Go on, tell him Alastair!”

The blond boy shakes his head, a soft expression crossing his head. “What does a servant need to know about my love life?”

“I do help pick your outfits, sir,” Armitage says. “It would be helpful to know who you are trying to impress.”

Going up the stairs with the purchases is a more difficult task. He struggles not to cough, lungs aching just slightly. A bead of sweat drips from his forehead.

Alastair snorts, tilting his head up in some snobbish gesture. “Well, if you must know,” he says, just as Armitage reaches the top floor. “He is a nobleman, one Lord Tethys Gyyll. He is advanced in age, but I don't mind becoming a widower. No shame in that.” Alastair's lips curdle into a smug little smile.

“So, something classy,” Barnaby says. “But not too uptight!”

Alastair laughs, so easily amused. “Look at him, brother. What would Ari know about something being not uptight?”

Barnaby laughs too, a tittering little string of giggles.

“Lord Gyyll has invited the house to the Royal Hunt,” Alastair announces.

“Ah,” Armitage says, soft, pieces clicking together easily. He is the first one to enter Alastair's room, placing the bags on the ground. “New clothing for the courting then?”

“Not all of it is mine,” Alastair snorts.

Barnaby bends low, picking up two bags, evidently filled with his purchases.

“You'll go with us too,” Barnaby says, smiling. “You'll work with Lord Gyyll's servants during the Hunt.”

Armitage nods. “Yes sir,” he says. “When are we to go? We are to stay with Lord Gyyll, yes?”

The Hunt was only a mere two weeks away, located at some campground within the Woods.

It's almost exciting.

“Yes, he has a winter house within a clearing of the Woods,” Barnaby says, clapping his hands, acting out his excitement. “I've heard it's made of iron, to keep the fairies away.” He whispers this, face flushed and oddly interested in that.

Alastair reaches out, pushing Barnaby's head away. He laughs, harshly, much too loud. “Oh, silly little Barnaby,” he says, pinching his brother's cheeks. “No house is made of iron, not even houses in the Woods. Their fence is just much, much taller.”

“Aw,” Barnaby says.

Armitage has already begun the process of unpacking, tucking clothing in their proper places, hanging particularly delicate pieces up on hangers.

The Woods, the Woods are calling.

*

Armitage yawns, stretching across his mattress, blanket falling from his form. Sometime, during the night, the fireplace had gone out. He blinks sleepily, mouth dry. It's cold in the servant's quarters... far too cold.

He stands, not bothering to fold the blanket, going to the bowl of water he had brought to the room before he had gone to sleep. Armitage reaches out, scooping some water with his hands, and drinks. Wetting his hands again, he washes-- his face, under his arms, anywhere he could have sweat during the night.

Then he undresses, tossing his bedclothing to the mattress.

He opens his closet, picking out another uniform. This one had not been properly adjusted -- the shoulders much too big.

Another day, another day of work.

*

It's a waiting game.

Just when he would be told to pack his meagre belongings for the Hunt...

Just when he would be told to pack both Lord Hux's belongings and the belongings of his sons...

Armitage does not have much to pack, so it'll be easy when it's his turn. Any old uniform would do, each being identical, worn out in the same spots as the other.

But he dreads packing for Alastair, who has much riding on this experience. He'd never heard of that particular Lord, but Armitage is well aware of how few people he knows.

But he is excited—ill-advisedly excited, for so much could possibly go wrong!

(Why would Alastair's suitor even allow a mere servant to tag along to such an important event? He doesn't care, can't seem to care. He'll do anything to carve a place for himself at the yearly Hunt.)

He goes to sleep that night, curled in front of the fireplace.

*

"Pack enough for the weekend," Lord Hux instructs. "The finest riding clothes for Alastair and Barnaby. I've already picked what I'll wear. Bring the best of your uniforms."

"Yes sir," Armitage says, barely suppressing his excitement at seeing the spectacle of the weekend.

Brendol Hux looks at him oddly, rolls his eyes. No doubt he finds his improperly behaving servant to be a nuisance, but, to Armitage's delight, he does not receive a scolding.

*

Lord Hux doesn't need to send for a carriage. Instead, that Lord Gyyll has sent them two carriages.

They're large, elaborate things, coming with their own horsemen. The horses are calm and steady, even when Armitage approaches, arms laden with his things for the weekend.

“Here,” the second horseman says, grabbing the handles to Armitage's bag. “Let me.”

He's a curious looking man, smaller and mousy, black hair and dark eyes. He smiles when Armitage looks at him, eyes sliding shut.

“About time,” Alastair grumbles as he gets into his carriage, following his father shortly. The first horseman helps him in, wordlessly, a patient smile upon his lips. Barnaby follows too, helping himself in.

Armitage lets himself into the second carriage, the carriage mostly reserved for luggage, and places his lonely little bag onto the lap.

The horseman nods at him before closing the door.

The sounds of the horses crushing the snow underfoot and the trickle of a nearby river are soothing sounds. Sounds that can easily put a tuckered out servant to sleep.

*

Lord Gyyll's cabin is nestled in-between several. The cabins are surprisingly large, Armitage finds. And these four in particular share a peculiar iron fence, tall and slender, each rod stretching out and curving, almost like a net or cage of sorts.

The buildings a three stories high, all made beautifully.

The servants that work for Gyyll are all lined up outside, standing shoulder to shoulder, dressed in mismatched clothing. Costumes. They're truly dressed for the Hunt's festival.

“Hello,” one of the servants greets—a cheerful woman with hastily braided brown hair and heavily lined eyes. “My name is Marybell. I'll be the one to show you to your rooms.”

“And where is Lord Gyyll?” Lord Hux demands, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“Lord Gyyll is out, picking up his costume for tonight,” Marybel says, fresh and pleasant. “The festival should begin soon. Please, change into your costumes. The carriage will be ready once Lord Gyyll returns.”

If she detects Brendol Hux's disapproval, she sure doesn't show it.

*

The servants' quarters is a large connected building of sorts, no walls separating the beds and a stairway leading to only more sleeping quarters. The windows let in light, warming the room with the sun's glow. A fireplace crackles in a different corner of the room, actual warmth seeping from it.

Marybel is at his side, same smile resting gently on her face.

Armitage is shown a bed and a place to keep his things, just underneath it. He sinks down, on the bedcovers, struggling not to let out a pleased sigh.

“So, Armitage, is it?” she asks.

He nods. “Yes?”

“Where's your costume?” she asks, cheeks rosy. “You're going to the festival, aren't you?”

“Isn't... isn't the festival for the nobles?” Armitage asks, brows furrowing.

Marybel laughs. “Oh, oh, yes,” she says. “There's two, really. A big festival within the clearing, one where the Hunters show up, holding the fruits of their labor. And then there's a smaller one, just one with all the servants of the families. It'll be fun,” she promises.

Somehow, he doubts this.

“So you don't have a costume?” Marybel assumes.

Armitage nods. “I didn't think I'd need one,” he says. The tradition itself – of dressing up as something you're not – is somewhat childish to him. “I could just wear this,” he says, gesturing to his servant's uniform.

Marybel shakes her head. “Oh, no, no!” she insists. She taps a finger against her chin. “Wait here,” she instructs Armitage before flitting about the room.

He couldn't follow the willful woman even if he wanted to.

“I was thinking,” Marybel says, bright as a bell, “we could match. I'm going an a Queen.” She holds up a violet dress as proof, sequins painstakingly sewn on. “You could go as my little Consort Prince!”

He can't quite help the sneer that grows on his face at that.

A different servant snorts, chuckling much too loudly. “No one wants to be your consort, Bell,” the man says, far too jovially.

“Well, Jonas,” Marybel says, turning upon him, furious. “What would you suggest our guest dress up as?”

He smiles, all teeth, and rolls his eyes, standing and walking to one of the closets. It's a large thing, probably shared by the servants. Jonas pulls the sliding door back, revealing lines of clothing.

“How tall would you say our guest is?” Jonas murmurs, pushing racks of simple dresses aside.

“Hmm,” Marybel hums. “Just about Zachariah's height, I'd say.”

Jonas pulls out black clothing and holds them out. The shirt is collared, just like what Armitage is used to. The pants, however, flare outwards awkwardly at the hips, like some sort of riding pants.

Marybel claps her hands together, so clearly amused. “Oh! A soldier man, then.”

“Yes,” Jonas says, laying the garments down on an unused bed. “But not just any soldier man.”

“Oh no,” Armitage mutters.

Jonas pulls out a greatcoat, a black, heavy thing, borrowed from yet another servant. “A general,” Jonas announces. “Just sew on some designation stripes.” He tosses it to Marybel, who stumbles forwards to catch it.

“Alright,” Marybel says, handing it to Armitage. “Easy enough. I'll bring you some material.”

The fabric of the coat is soft and plush, a very warm material. “Oh, but it'd be ruined,” he protests. “I can't--”

“You can have it,” Jonas says. “It's mine. From when I was in the army.” He pauses, shifting his eyes away, wringing his hands. “It's not like it means anything now,” he says with a shrug. “The Empire has fallen.”

Armitage's eyes fall back down on the fine coat, unmarked, the coat of a minor man. He sighs, picking up a borrowed needle and strips of white fabric.

*

At noon, Lord Gyyll appears, dressed in some woolen thing, calling himself a fairy, some sort of wookie belonging only to stories.

He looks about Lord Hux's age, hair fully grey. “Welcome to the property, Lord Brendol Hux,” Gyyll says, smiling easily, eyes warm. His eyes fall upon Armitage, standing behind amongst all the servants. “Oh, I only prepared three horses for you all... had I known we'd need four...”

Lord Hux takes it in stride, chuckling lowly. “No, no. Armitage is merely a servant.”

Gyyll looks at Armitage then to Brendol, furrowing his brows in a particular way. “Alright,” he says haltingly. “Come along. The Hunt is about to begin.”

The door is hardly shut before Marybel springs into action, dragging Armitage behind her. “That means our festivities are starting soon too!”

The servants of the Gyyll household do not take horses or even a carriage. The group of twenty servants are dressed in costumes: Marybel as a queen, Jonas as a wolf, someone as a fisherman.

They take little footworn paths, Marybel as their leader, until they come to a gathering place.

Like the scattered houses within the Woods, this gathering place is protected by a large iron fence, spiraling upwards, like a strange birdcage. Tents have been set up, along with long tables. People have already arrived, fellow servants, all belonging to different households.

It's far too loud, people chattering and music playing, a nearly full band playing at one edge of the cage. A fire is going at the festivity's very center, nothing being cooked on top. Colorful stalls and booths are arranged nearby, small trinkets and sweets being sold, but no meal fit for the table that's been arranged. How odd.

Armitage finds himself to be alone, sits at one empty spot of the dreadfully empty table.

Marybel finds him, even in the crowd. The dress looks nice on her, sparkling with every movement. Her cheeks are red and flushed with excitement. She reaches out, squeezing Armitage's hand.

He pulls it away wordlessly, giving her an odd look.

“You might not be finding this fun so far,” she says, possibly drunk. Armitage had noticed the smell of wine, but had not noticed the distributor, and so he sat there, terribly sober. “But I promise it'll get better... in... just a moment...”

Marybel eyes the fence's opening, sees how two of the party-goers opens it.

Not too far off, the sounds of horses, horses trotting and trampling the ground, as they come.

“What's going on?” asks Armitage.

Marybel smiles, all teeth, her eyes shutting. “The Hunt might be thrown in honor of our great Queen, but the Knights of Ren like to grace the common people with their presence, gifting us fresh meat from the hunt.”

“Aaaaaaand,” Marybel says, holding out one finger, grin suddenly looking so much more mischievous. “It's tradition for each Knight to pick their favorite costumed attendee and carry them off!” She reaches out, resting her arm against his shoulder.

Armitage sighs, shrugging her off once again. “I wouldn't have come if I'd known that.”

“That's what we were worried about,” Marybel says, nodding her head furiously, trying to come across as genuine. She comes across as genuinely drunk. “You need to relax a little. Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Who shoved the stick up--”

A chorus of horses interrupts whatever rude thing she was about to say.

“Oh! The Hunters are here,” she says, sighing, something lovelorn.

The horses are all black mares, powerful beasts as mysterious as the folk that ride them, draped in loose, black garments. Blood—the blood of killed prey—coils in the air. Armitage can't help but scrunch up his nose at the smell.

A deer is thrown to the ground, big and meaty, an arrow stuck within its breast.

Three peasants approach the carcass, picking it up, and dragging it closer to that lonely fire, knives already ready to skin it and prepare it for a meal.

“Oh,” Armitage says.

“Oh,” Marybel repeats, smacking his shoulder.

There are seven cloaked figures—those Knights of Ren. They circle the crowd, examining those costumed people.

Quickly, people are chosen, helped onto the horses—behind the hunter, arms tight around waists, or in front of the hunter, leaning closer to warm chests.

Marybel drags him to his feet. “Come along,” she says. “Quickly now! I want to have my chance.”

Armitage rolls his eyes but follows closely.

Just as soon as they approach, a hunter urges their horse near the two.

Armitage looks up, narrowing his eyes, but the loose black hood conceals the identity of the hunter. Marybel practically vibrates at his side, squeezing his hand roughly, cheeks as red as berries.

The hunter extends a gloved hand, practically in front of Armitage's nose.

He freezes there. This hadn't been the plan—it should have been Marybel chosen, someone who actually cared for this dated and strange ritual.

“What are you waiting for?” Marybel whispers, urging him forwards. “Go! Go!”

Armitage rolls his eyes once more, bullied into taking the hunter's hand. Much too easily, the hunter lifts Armitage, helping the man sit in front of him. The hunter's arms are steady things at Armitage's side.

The horse seems to understand the hunter, without him even speaking.

“So,” Armitage says, never one for small talk, his heart hammering in his throat. “Just where are you taking me, stranger?”

The deep chuckle that reverberates against his spine shouldn't feel so familiar. “You don't recognize me?” the man asks, whispering to Armitage's ear. “Hux, I'm heartbroken.”

He sighs, smacking one of Ren's arms. “I didn't know you approved of such idiocy.”

Ren shrugs, almost helpless. “Tradition is tradition.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several times dead game animals are mentioned, nothing very descriptive.
> 
> Again, huge shout out to my beta. I couldn't have done it without her :'^)
> 
> Edit 3/16/17: Flukeoffate has made more absolutely gorgeous art for this fic !!  
> http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/post/158459401461/winter-hunt-dance-by-flukeoffate-well-then-would

“So,” Ben says, his amusement helplessly smothering the word. “An Imperial soldier?”

Hux scoffs, leaning close to Ben, as the horse trots on the course Ben wants, trotting along a peaceful path within the Woods. “An Imperial General, actually,” he says. “Not my idea, of course.”

“The other servants, then?” Ben says. “Didn't think you'd be one to be bullied into anything.”

“It's a holiday,” Hux snipes. “I'm being nice.”

“Worried the faeries will take you away if you aren't nice?” Ben teases.

Hux's shoulders roll, a shaking sort of indignant huff. “No,” he says simply. “In fact, I implore them to take me away from you and your smelly breath.”

He can't help but snort, breath warming the air about Hux's head.

“Just where are you taking me?” Hux murmurs.

“Dunno,” Ben admits. “This is my first time... with the other hunters.”

“I guess it's only fair,” Hux says, his sharp shoulders drooping underneath the dark Imperial jacket.

Ben shifts, fishing for a brown paper bag, tucked into a pocket of his flowing cape. He finds it, the material crinkling beneath his greedy fingers, and pulls it out, passing it forwards to Hux. “Want some?” he asks. “Got some pastries before I left Capital City.”

Hux takes it—haltingly, the paper bag only making more noise as he unfolds it, finding the round pastries within. Hux takes the last one in hand, pausing. “Just what is it?”

“A pastry,” Ben repeats, rolling his eyes. “Like, I asked for a strawberry filling, but it tastes more like plum to me...”

Hux stays silent there, in front of him, as if pondering that stupid little pastry Ben had snagged for himself.

*

Ben returns them both to the central hub for the commoners' festival. The music is just as loud and bawdy as before, though, now, more people are drawn to dance, faces red and merry.

Hux gets off of the horse first, but Ben is soon to follow, circling around to face the thin man.

“Hey,” Ben can't help but say. “You got some jam--”

Hux wipes at his mouth, brows furrowing low, a crease appearing between them. He completely misses the dark, purple jam, clinging stubbornly just outside his mouth, smearing outwards near his chin.

“No, no... Here,” Ben says, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket. “Let me.”

Hux lets him, standing perfectly still as Ben rubs at his face.

“There you are!” a clearly drunk voice calls. “Been looking for you!”

Hux groans.

“Someone you know?” Ben asks.

“Marybel,” Hux says, turning towards her. “Just what are you doing?”

Her cheeks are red like firelight, eyes sparkling, no doubt thanks to the flowing wines. Marybel, some servant, dressed in a heavy looking gown, wraps a dark shawl around her shoulders. Her hair spills from once tight coils.

“You were gone for a while,” Marybel sing-songs, approaching. “Has anything... happened?” All too obviously, she winks, edging her way closer, dissolving into airy giggles.

Hux sighs tiredly, pushes her away. “Come along... let's find some sober member of the house...”

*

He wishes to sit with the hunters, the so-called Knights of Ren, the Goddess of the hunt's chosen few. But instead he sits at his mother's left, his father opposite him.

Various members of Alderaan's nobility and higher class sit about the table, enjoying the last of this day's winter's light.

Ben has washed up, changing out of the heavy black garments to white ceremonial garb. The fabric is warm, as well, but not styled as he would have liked. It clings too closely to his skin, emphasizing his musculature and his build. His hair is pulled back and away from his face, making his ears and nose look far too big.

His mother and those in charge of his official appearances would never listen.

He stabs a piece of roasted deer with particular vehemence.

“Ben,” Leia warns, wiping at the corner of her mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. “We've talked about this.”

He stuffs his mouth, saying nothing.

*

The second night of partying goes just about the same.

Ben follows the rest of the hunters, dressed in familiar black fabric, seated upon his horse. This time, they do not come bearing gifts of freshly caught meat. Instead, Ben carries a pouch of gold coins, weighing heavily in his pocket.

“So what's the tradition behind this?” he asks.

Another hunter laughs, amused by the prince's lack of knowledge. “Chosen hunters come from all walks of life,” the hunter says. Shia—one of the oldest of the Knights of Ren and certainly the best informed with folklore—rides alongside of Ben. “The commoners tend the struggle, especially during winter.”

“And besides,” Shia says, “It goes along quite nicely with my favorite faerie tale.”

Other hunters groan, tired of Shia and his exorbitant ways.

“Well,” says Ben. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

Shia chuckles, receiving the answer he had wanted.

 

 _Once upon a time, after the first Knights of Ren were chosen, their master found himself drawn to the Woods. Matthew Ren was a man well gifted with Ren's gift—the talent that comes only to Alderaan's crowned hunters,_ no offense, Prince Ben _._

 _But Matthew also had quite the temper..._ like you, actually, my Prince...

_Anyway, Matthew found himself drawn to the Woods, something about those snow covered branches and silence of snowfall incredibly alluring. So, he took his horse and rode her to the Woods, his bow a heavy weight against his back._

_He rode into the forest, looking for just what had drawn him in._

_And there!_

_A peasant walked through knee-deep snow, ill fitting clothes hanging off their frame._

_'Excuse me!' said Matthew, stopping just in front of the miserable looking commoner, rage swallowing his heart. 'What brings you to the Woods at this time of year? You should know it is forbidden.'_

_The commoner looked up onto Matthew with tired, red-rimmed eyes, pulling their raggedy cloak closer to their body. 'I am sorry, my Lord. I am looking for food, my Lord. At home, there is nothing for us to eat.'_

_Compassion came upon Matthew at that moment, melting the ice around his heart._

_'Well, no one should go hungry, especially when there is enough to go around,' thought Matthew, as the hunter set himself to work._

_The hunter caught three rabbits, delivering them back to the foraging peasant._

_'Thank you, my Lord, for I will not go hungry,' the peasant said, arms laden with the feast._

_Matthew rode back to the castle, ready to go back home, convinced that is what he had been drawn to the Woods for._

_The next week was much the same._

_Matthew rode back to the Woods, drawn, mysteriously, once again._

_And again! The peasant was there, no longer wearing the cloak from the week prior, shivering all over._

_'Excuse me!' said Matthew. 'What brings you to the Woods when you know it is forbidden?'_

_The peasant looked to him, shaking, holding themself together. 'I am so sorry, my Lord. I am looking for something to keep me warm, my Lord, for at home there is no wood in the fireplace and I have ripped my only cloak.'_

_And compassion took his heart again, Matthew pulling his own cloak from his shoulders, placing it around the commoner's shoulders._

_'Well, no one should go cold. Not when so much gold is spent on clothing and fuel in Capital City,' Matthew thinks._

_'Come with me,' he says. 'I will cut your firewood for you.'_

_And so he did, spending hours with that commoner, cutting down enough wood to last the other a good time._

_'Thank you, my Lord,' the peasant said, holding onto miraculously dry wood, Matthew's very own cloak upon their shoulders._

_Matthew rode back to the castle, convinced that this is what he had been drawn to the Woods for._

_The next week was much the same._

_Matthew rode again to the Woods, certain that this day would be the last day he'd be called._

_And there! The peasant stood, wearing Matthew's heavy cloak, cheeks rosy with chill._

_'Excuse me,' Matthew called. 'What brings you to the Woods, when you know it is forbidden?'_

_The peasant looked at him, smiling shyly. 'I am so sorry, my Lord. I am looking for someone to love and someone who will love me in turn, but I am a poor commoner, an outcast, even amongst my people.'_

_Matthew's heart sang in his chest. He stretched out his hand, beckoning the commoner forwards. 'Then come with me,' he said. 'I'll take you away from your hateful village... I'll make you a home, filled only with love.'_

_'For everyone deserves a chance at happiness, whoever they may be,' Matthew thought._

_The commoner took his outstretched hand and Matthew pulled them onto the horse, in front of the hunter._

_But then the peasant began to giggle—something light and airy, so carefree. Light, shimmering light, melted their body away._

_There, sitting pretty on Matthew's horse, was a faerie, hair long and red, spilling below even his waist. His poor clothing lost its color and became fine, far finer than the cloak hanging about the faerie's shoulders. The creature turned upon the horse, to face the hunter he had captured, capturing him once again with glittering blue eyes._

_'Will you still love me, knowing that I am not human?' asked the faerie._

_Matthew leaned forwards, pressing a kiss to the faerie's forehead. 'Forever and ever,' he promised._

 

“It's just so romantic,” Shia finishes, sighing and swooning upon his horse.

Ben rolls his eyes. “Feels a bit rushed to me,” he mutters. “They met... just three times? The hunter didn't even know the faerie's name.”

“Oh, shush you,” Shia scolds. “I don't even know why I bothered... you're to just marry whoever your mother chooses, aren't you? Two years, boy. Hope she picks better for you than she did for herself.”

Ben clenches his jaw, teeth scraping against teeth. He stops his horse, whole body tense.

“You'll take it back,” he spits.

Shia freezes too, a stuttering laugh escaping him. “What? Why should I?”

“You'll take it back,” Ben spits again, dropping off the side of his horse, feet crunching against the snow with each step as he approaches Shia's. “As your future leader--”

“Future leader,” Shia chimes. “But not yet!”

“Fight me,” Ben barks, sneering, all teeth.

Shia sneers right back, pale face peering out from between layers of cloth. “Challenging me to a duel while you don't have your sword? Remember, my Prince, I am the true Master of Ren.”

“Peace,” a different hunter murmurs, urging his horse forwards, cutting between the two men. “Master Shia, show some respect for the future ruler of Alderaan… Prince Ben, please understand that this should be your hobby, not your life.” The hunter sighs, shaking his head. “We're nearly at the commoners' festivities. Be peaceful until then.”

Ben sighs, clenching his fists.

*

Music plays—this time, even louder than the other day's performance.

The people are spread out, some dancing to the melodic and cheerful tunes, some purchasing pastries that strongly smelled of sweet winterberries, some sat at the long table, chatting idly, drinks in hand.

But he's looking for one peasant in particular.

Ben gets off his horse before entering into the iron cage. He doesn't really look where he's walking, too caught up in searching for copper hair, tied up in a high ponytail.

But he doesn't see any.

Ben sighs, finding his way to one of the booths. The strong smell of homebrewed alcohol stings his nose. “I'll have a drink,” he tells the peasant selling her wares.

“A Royal Hunter?” the woman gapes, mouth falling open. She pinches her cheeks, the skin reddening quickly. “O-oh, on the house, for you.”

Ben shrugs, expecting the drink, taking a sip as he goes.

“There you are,” comes that sharp voice. “Drinking already?”

Ben turns, a sly smile growing on his face. “There you are?” he repeats. “I think I should be saying that... Where've you been?”

Hux scowls. He wears the same costume from the day before—the uniform of an Imperial general. The cut of it suits him, broadening his shoulders and favoring his height, even if the color makes him look all washed out.

He sighs. “I've been avoiding the other servants. Marybel has got it into her head that I owe her a dance...” Hux shakes his head, a scowl looking out-of-place in such a peaceful environ.

Ben can't help but laugh. “Why would she think that you owe her a dance?”

Hux glowers at him. “It's all your fault, really. Choosing me while she was there... now she regrets telling me to go with you. Thinks it a ruined chance, actually.”

Ben swallows back another long gulp of the burning drink. “Well then, would you do me the honor of a dance?” he says, bowing at the waist, placing a hand flat against his belly.

Hux steps back, pale green eyes wide in shock. He shakes his head quickly though, heat blossoming upon his cheeks.

“No,” Hux huffs. “Don't be ridiculous.”

Ben leans closer, smile blossoming slowly. “You don't know how to dance, do you?” he teases.

Hux huffs again, crossing his arms and looking away, tilting his head up. “Of course I do,” he says, red seeping to his throat. Idly, he wonders if the red flush continues down the man's chest.

“Then prove it,” Ben says, sweeping Hux into his arms.

Hux goes stiff, hand coming up to grip at Ben's arm. Ben places his hand against the small of Hux's back, lowering his other to find Hux's free hand. Slowly, he captures it within his gloved hand, squeezing rather gently.

“Follow my lead,” Ben encourages.

Hux rolls his eyes but allows himself to be led in a dance. “You're impossible,” he says, stepping on Ben's foot.

He's not quite sure if it was an accident or not—it doesn't really matter.

*

“--I swear... I hadn't known Life Debts were even still around,” an older gentleman says, shaking his head and sighing tiredly. “I... I thought under your legislation, Life Debts were freed from their indentured servitude and--” He becomes heated, voice raising in pitch. He sighs. “I've asked them to return to their home... my Queen, you should have seen--”

“--well, Lord--” Leia shoots off into her own conversation, letting her food grow cold on her plate as the words she speaks become heated.

Ben spoons at his rabbit stew. Spiceless, he'd complain. There's hardly any flavor to it.

His father looks as if he's thinking the same, eyes darting about this way and that before he snatches another piece of bread, soaking it in the stew and eating it, making a pained face.

Han could be so terribly transparent.

Ben lowers his gaze once his father establishes eye contact, still chewing, one brow raised.

*

The last day of the Hunt brings another day of festivities—with the hunters, with the peasants, with the nobility.

They bring their spoils of the morning's hunt, the weight of two dead rabbits heavy in his hand.

The hunters are silent today, snow falling slowly about them, clinging stubbornly to loose black cloaks.

“Hm?” Ben murmurs. “What's this...?”

Ben rides forwards another few steps, horse snorting stubbornly, tossing her head.

The iron cage that houses the common area for the peasants is still there—but a sort of nervous chatter hangs about the air, like the thickening of electricity before lighting strikes. Strange pieces of cloth are tied to the iron bars, colorful and bright, flapping about with the light breeze.

“You... don't know much, do you?” Obiome murmurs, voice soft. She, like the other hunters, stares straight ahead. “About the commoners and their rituals.”

Ben clenches his jaw.

“Hush,” she says, waving a hand in dismissal. “The cloths are offerings to faeries, each representing some happiness freely given and meant to be shared. In turn, they believe happiness will find them in the coming year.”

“That's... interesting,” he manages, not sounding convincing.

She smiles wryly, leaps peaking out from under her hood.

Ben dismounts, the first hunter to enter the iron cage, looking forwards to seeing that glimpse of copper hair once again.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter!

Spring returns to Alderaan—birds returning to make nests and roost their young, baby deer wobbling about on fresh legs, and new fashions making their way from the Capital.

“I'll be back in about a month,” promises Lord Hux, righting the hat on his head. He makes for a stern-looking businessman, sitting within the carriage. “Wish me well,” he says, though not typically one for well wishing.

Barnaby leans forwards, sticking his head through the opened window, placing a kiss upon his father's bearded cheek. “Stay safe,” Barnaby says, moving out of the way as Alastair surges forth.

“You're going North, right father?” Alastair asks. “To Kashyyk? Will you bring me home a new cloak?” he says, wearing the one Lord Hux had bought in the winter. Soon, it'll be much too warm for the heavy fur cloak, but for now the winter winds cling to Alderaan like the melting snows.

“Something light, I take it?” Lord Hux says, amusing his favorite son.

“Yes,” Alastair agrees, nodding his head furiously. “Perhaps something white, like freshly fallen snow?”

It might suit him, making him look more regal, making the family look more rich.

(For who would willingly spend money on a cloak that would soon be dirtied but someone fabulously wealthy?)

“I will see what I can do,” promises Lord Hux, nodding at his children before sliding the window up. Slowly, the horses trot off, Lord Hux's carriage followed by a few others, his business partners riding within them.

Slowly, Armitage turns away, unable to watch as Barnaby stands there, waving off his father, his father not able to see.

*

 

Without Brendol Hux at the Hux house, things grow quiet.

Armitage cooks and cleans and helps both boys get ready for the day, arranging both clothing and hair.

After a quick breakfast, Alastair and Barnaby are off, who-knows-where, arm in arm, heads held up high and proud.

Armitage sighs to himself, placing the dirty dishes into the sink, rolling up his shirtsleeves and setting about to wash them.

*

 

“That's right Millicent,” Armitage murmurs, stroking her between her ears. She sits on him, all curled up, eyes shut, purring. “They're out again, without any supervision...” He huffs, a quiet little thing, shaking his head.

Millicent lets out a mewl, wriggling, making herself comfortable once again.

“I don't know what they're up to,” he mutters, “but I just _know_ their father will not approve.” Noble blooded boys aren't meant to come back home, cravats undone, red splotches about their necks.

His fingers trail down, stroking beneath her chin. She licks his finger, tasting remnants of grease that had stuck stubbornly, even after Armitage had finished his meal. Armitage pulls his hand away before she could worry his finger with her sharp, little teeth.

He sits besides the same river as always, a cloak beneath him.

Somewhere, somewhere between the trees, he thinks he hears the heavy footfalls of a horse.

Armitage, smiles to himself, rolling his eyes. “Well, Millie, it seems that overgrown child's found us once again...” he murmurs to the cat.

Millicent, regal and unbothered, lets out a little mewl, kneading Armitage's leg through rough, dark fabric.

When Kylo Ren rides his way out from between the trees, high and triumphant upon his horse, it isn't really a surprise. His hood is pulled back and away from his face, thick, dark hair falling about, disorganized.

A mess.

“You should really consider putting your hair up,” Armitage advices, not moving from his resting spot.

Ren shoots his a strange look. “No,” he says, haltingly, clearing his throat with a low cough or two. “Fancy seeing you again. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were some sort of forest sprite... I seem to only ever see you within the Woods.”

Armitage lets out a short laugh. “Where else are you to find me? Have you not noticed just what different lives we live?” He rolls his eyes, swallowing back his words.

“Sounds just like something a fairy would say,” Ren says, sliding off the back of his horse. She follows him forwards, drinking from the cool water of the river. Ren looks at him, face contorting something strange. “At the Hunt... the final day, I looked for you,” he says slowly. “And I couldn't find you. Did something happen?”

And, ah, perhaps the strange contortion means something.

The shiny-eyed look of sentiment and care.

How strange to see it on the face of a professional killer.

Armitage rolls his eyes, ignoring the warming of his face. ( _Should he be touched? That someone had cared enough to look?_ ) “Don't be ridiculous,” he says instead, not coming close to how harsh he had wanted to sound. Instead he sounds weak, voice breaking at the very start. “My Master simply left earlier and I had to follow.”

“Huh,” Ren breathes. “Your master... why would he want to leave early? It's the winter feast...” He almost sounds mournful. Ridiculous.

Armitage shrugs, a little helpless. “Why would I know?” he snipes, feeling the grime of ash seemingly stuck permanently to his skin. “I'm just a servant.”

Ren's face falls, eyebrows creasing. He drops to the ground like a rock, sitting in the most dramatic sort of way, legs splayed out, facing the river alongside Armitage. “You're... not just a servant. You're a person. You can do whatever you want to do... you could have stayed behind, disobeyed... what's stopping you?”

Armitage looks at him, brows raised. “Have you not perhaps considered that financially speaking I cannot just do whatever I want?” He throws up his hands, a gesture of defeat.

The hunter blinks at him curiously, unsure of just where to look. Finally, Ren settles upon looking at Armitage's collar, the uniform shirt missing a mischievous button.

“How... how much are you being paid?” Ren asks. “If you... don't mind me asking.”

Armitage huffs, picking Millient up so that he can stand, coming to his full height, looking down on the seated Ren. “I'm being paid enough--”

“If... if you're not happy... and the pay isn't even that great, why do you stay? What's... what's to stop you from seeking employment elsewhere?” Ren asks him. He sits there, looking up at Armitage with eyes blown wide.

He sighs, letting go of the squirming cat. Millicent lands on her feet and bounds off, growing tired of the discussion. “You wouldn't understand, Ren,” Armitage mutters. “Your career... is something to be envied.” He sighs, something far too soft. “You get all this choice and freedom... doing whatever you'd like, day in and day out...”

Ren huffs, something bitter. A dark expression crosses his face. “I guess you wouldn't understand. Just an uneducated peasant.”

Armitage feels his face fall before he can school it to its normal calm. He blinks, rapidly, his chest feeling tight. “You're right,” he says, voice soft, weak, something brittle and flimsy, like paper. “ _I'm_ just a peasant who knows nothing. _You're_ just born better and play with the feelings of lesser beings. What a foolish game.”

It comes to an end right there then.

He walks away, swallowing back useless tears, even as a branch catches him across the cheeks.

The hunter doesn't make a move to stop him.

Only too late does Armitage realize he's left his cloak.

*

 

The house looks just as empty as it was when he left. Armitage shakes his head, feeling silly, feeling _weak_ , for his little outburst.

He reaches out for the iron fence, opening it.

“Excuse him,” an unfamiliar, mousy voice says. “Is this the Hux household?”

Armitage drops his hand, shutting the fence. He turns. “Yes,” he says. “And who would you be?”

The man before him is shorter than him, slight of build, and carries a small smile. His neat black hair has been combed back from his face. He's dressed in a uniform, much too similar to Armitage's own. There's something strange, something haunting about his dark eyes.

“My name is Dopheld Mitaka,” he introduces, stepping forwards and extending a hand.

Armitage takes it. Mitaka's grip is surprisingly firm.

“And what might bring you here, Mister Mitaka?” he asks, taking his hand back.

“I've been hired by Lord Hux to provide you with some assistance,” Mitaka says, smiling brightly, sweetly, and waiting patiently. It's almost too perfect.

“Have you...?” Armitage asks, frowning. “He didn't mention a new servant--”

Mitaka reaches out, his gloved hand wrapping about Armitage's wrist and pulling his hand close. “Oh, he must have forgotten,” Mitaka says, something smooth about his voice, like honey, like silk. He smiles, closing his eyes. “Well, why don't you open up the gate and let us in?”

He does so, eyes heavy within their sockets. “I'll open up the gate and let us in,” he murmurs, voice hardly rising above the wind.

The gate opens oh so easily, swinging out and creaking lowly.

“Now then,” says Mitaka, clapping his hands together before linking arms with Armitage. “Let's begin spring cleaning.”

A fog finds itself behind Armitage's eyes. He nods, unable to find any proper words, unable even to find the will to shut the iron gate as it swings behind them.

Cleaning goes by fast—faster than it ever had. It feels as if the chores are doing themselves and before Armitage knows it, he's faced with a clean house.

His mind clears. Suddenly, mortification drops on his shoulders. “Lord Hux hasn't provided me with your pay either,” he says, remembering it so suddenly. Armitage scowls too, finding his headache to be gone. _Why hadn't I mentioned that earlier? Why did I let him do all that work?_

“Oh,” Mitaka says, holding up a hand. “It's alright. I was actually paying my debts with this.” He reaches out, but Armitage dodges the hand.

Armitage raises a brow. “Don't be silly,” he huffs, indigent. “We've done a lot of work... there must be something you can accept, at least until Lord Hux returns with a form of payment.”

He looks up, catching Mitaka's curious eyes.

His frame is slender, not overly thin, but...

Armitage sighs to myself. “Here,” he offers, walking back to the kitchen and poking about the conservator. He pulls a pitcher of water out, pouring it into a clean cup. Armitage pulls out waxed paper, finding some cold cuts of meat and cheese. “Now let me just find some bread...”

He takes a fresh hunk of bread from where it had been resting on a windowsill, cooling off.

He places the mealstuff onto a plate and shoves it into Mitaka's arms.

“Eat up,” Armitage insists, letting go. “I hope this'll suffice.”

Mitaka looks at him oddly. “I cannot accept--”

Armitage clicks his tongue. “You can and you will,” he practically orders, standing perfectly straight, exuding authority.

The mousy man gives up, shoulders curling in. He sits at the kitchen table, placing the plate of food upon it. He drinks from the cup water first, throat bobbing with each gulp. Mitaka turns again to Armitage, feeling his gaze's weight upon him. “Will you not eat?”

He shakes his head. “I like to eat when all the work is done.”

“Haven't we finished it all?”

“No,” Armitage says. “The task of attending to the young masters still stands.”

“Huh,” Mitaka says. And yet he tears into the fresh bread, eating it up.

Armitage walks off, forgetting what he means to do.

When he returns to the kitchen, Mitaka is already gone, along with the plate of food.

*

 

When Lord Hux returns from his business that week with meagre gains, Armitage cannot find his words. Every time he even thinks about the new help, Mitaka slips his mind just as quick.

It's a strange, worrisome phenomena that slowly fades with every hour until he cannot even remember what it was he needed to say.

“Armitage of No Name,” Lord Hux says, pressing a copper penny into Armitage's hand. “That's your pay for the last year. Don't spend it all in one place,” he advices, a sneer coloring his words.

He nods, tucking it away into a pocket.

He's saved for the last three years, his goal being a new pair of shoes. Perhaps, Armitage thinks, he could manage a trip to the market.

Outside, birds sang.

It almost feels like encouragement.

*

 

*

Nearly a week later, he finds the time do follow through on his plan.

He walks through the Woods, feet sinking into mud with each step.

He carries four copper pennies tucked away in a small pouch. The winds are brisk, but he no longer has a cloak to fend them off. Armitage fights off a shiver.

It's the sounds of a horse, thrashing through the Woods that startles him, sending him cowering behind a particularly thick three. His heart leaps to his throat, beating far, far too loudly, so surely anyone else could hear.

“Who's there?” calls that insufferably familiar voice.

Armitage fists his hands, nails biting into his palms. He walks out from behind the tree trunk, a vicious smile upon his lips. “Just a peasant,” he spits, “passing through.”

Ren pulls his hood away from his face, mouth falling open. “Hux,” is all he manages.

“Have you lost your words?” Armitage sneers, walking off, ignoring him, set upon following the shortcut.

A loud thump and then footsteps. Armitage does not have to turn around to know that the impulsive Ren has leapt from his horse, only to follow him, each footstep resounding. Ren's hand closes around Armitage's wrist.

“Wait,” he orders.

Armitage pulls free, tossing a glare over his shoulder. “Think you can order me around because I'm a commoner?” he says. A strand of copper hair pulls free from Armitage's hairband, fluttering freely with the wind.

Ren's face falls. “Wha-- no, no no,” he says. “Shit, that's not what I meant at all.”

He lets of of Armitage's skinny little wrist and turns back, rummaging for something in a bag kept on the horse.

Ren pulls free a fur cloak, the very same one Armitage had abandoned by the river. “Here,” he says, placing it over Armitage's chilled form. “You left this...”

Armitage pulls the cloak closer, fisting the material, feeling himself warm impossibly fast.

“And...” Ren frowns, his lips all chapped and sad looking. “I'm sorry... I didn't mean what I said.”

“You still said it,” Armitage scolds.

“Then, give me the chance to make up for it,” Ren says. “Where are you going? May I have the honor of escorting you there?”

As if to spur him forwards, a cold bit of mud gets inside of Armitage's shoe. He sighs. “The Marketplace just outside of Capital.”

Ren nods, returning to his dark mare. “Come on then,” he says, voice low and so strangely alluring. He stretches out a hand, helping Armitage up, onto the horse. “Wrap your arms around me so that you don't fall off.”

Armitage snorts. “That just attests to how recklessly you ride your poor horse,” he says, but he does so anyway, slotting his arms around Ren's waist and clinging to the man's filthy cloak.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there is no love triangle so please trust me on this.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No major warnings for this chapter. Some body horror in the first section--Unkar Plutt's description specifically.
> 
> This chapter almost didn't get published because my laptop was a stubborn little thing. But hear we are! Thank you for reading. You can find me at gaygalaxyguy.tumblr.com if you want to talk kylux or something!

“So, what is it that we're here for?” Ben asks, following Hux into the marketplace. They'd left the horse behind, tied her to a post. Being a horse of the Knights of Ren, no one would dare try to steal her—doing so would invoke the wrath of a Goddess.

“I'd like to buy a pair of shoes,” Hux says, looking straight ahead.

Brick and mortar stores are set up around the place, but they don't seem to interest Hux. Several, smaller and more specialized sellers sit behind booths, vibrant pieces of cloth for signs, some banners lacking words at all but instead sporting sewn on images.

Ben pulls up his hood, lowering his head.

They pass by a store, the sign up front spelling out _Shoes_ quite loudly.

“Any seller you know?” asks Ben. “Or prefer? We just passed by a shoe store.” One with a seller that Ben knew of and—however unfortunate—a seller who knew him too.

Hux pauses mid-step and turns, glancing right past the store. He glances at the shoes through the glass window, an almost wistful expression crossing his face. Hux wets his lips. “I cannot afford those,” he says lightly, reaching out and dragging Ben with him.

Ben frowns, even as Hux leads them to bigger and stranger booths, colorful cloth whipping around in the wind above them, finally stopping before quite possibly the sketchiest one, cloths of every color tied to poles.

The booth is large, several figures behind it. Most are moving, always in motion, bringing products here and there.

But the man in charge, he just sits there, right behind a table, thin lips pulled away from his teeth in a gruesome expression.

“Unkar Plutt,” Hux calls out as a sort of greeting.

The man before them—this strange Unkar Plutt—makes quite the frightening picture. His skin is white and bulbous, folding oddly, nearly folding over an eye. A wonder if he could even see from that eye at all! He wears heavy clothing, as if to shield his sensitive form from the sun's rays, covering up even his ears.

“I do believe there should be a 'Mister' somewhere there, Midge,” Unkar sneers. His eyes seem to soak everything in. “What is it that you want?”

“Midge?” Ben repeats, just under his breath.

Hux makes a face, sighing. “Yes, like the bug,” he tells Ben, turning back to Unkar. “Shoes,” he says to the bulbous man. “I trust you remember my size.” He shifts, removing a small coin pouch and pouring out the coins into his palm. “Four coppers, as usual, yes?”

Unkar's bulbous face twists, showing teeth once again—he's smiling, Ben realizes with a start.

“Four copper pennies?” he asks. “No, no, my Midge. It's six coppers for a pair of shoes.”

Hux stills. His brows raise almost comically. He huffs, a little indignant sound, putting his money back into the pouch and hiding it away. “You'll not get that out of me, don't even think it,” Hux says, annoyed, already turning around, ready to leave. “It was four last time.”  
“Inflation,” Unkar offers, crooning in a way that makes Ben's spine shudder. The way he moves is not natural. There's something wrong about him, something unnatural.

“But...” Unkar says, a low, keening sound following the word out of his mouth. “Your friend there--” he says, pointing directly at Ben.

He freezes underneath his hood, pulling it lower over his head.

Unkar makes that noise again, the strange sort of whine. “He can surely pay for you.” He pulls out a pair of shoes from somewhere behind him, not even in a box.

A shoddy pair of slip-ons, not even made of leather.

Like the ones Hux has been wearing since Ben had met him.

Hux rolls his eyes, catching Ben by the wrist and pulling him along. “Don't be ridiculous, Unkar,” he says, exhaling shortly through his mouth. He shakes his head, muttering lowly, never once letting go of Ben.

Hux practically drags him far from the booths, far from the people, drags him into an isolated corner of the Market. There, only trees and birds can witness them. There, they've practically entered the Woods.

“Sorry,” Hux mutters, once he deems them far enough away.

Ben's eyes trail down his arm and then linger where Hux's hand clamps down on his wrist. Hux's hand is small and pale, dusted with a coat of freckles. It can just wrap around Ben's thick wrist.

“That guy almost ripped you off,” Ben says, sour, eyes rushing back up meet Hux's own. “Shoes like that aren't even worth one copper.”

Soddy stitches, questionable material.

He snorts. “Why even buy from him?”

Hux looks at him oddly, shaking his head. “Honestly Ren,” he sighs tiredly. “I was relying on Unkar because of how low his prices can go. Looks as if he's gotten greedier, if even possible.” He scowls, a sneer forming on his lips.

“What was up... with his skin?” Ben says, with absolutely no tact.

Hux looks at him, face dissolving into a wry smile. “He's just ugly,” Hux says, “But... I'll indulge you.”

Hux goes silent, properly schooling his face to something serious, so unlike his words. “There is a rumor, just a tale told from one peasant to another... If it is to be believed, Unkar stole a faerie from the Woods and locked her in a tall tower,” Hux says, dry and bored, as if this was an everyday thing. “The faerie cursed him while he was locking her up, making his skin bubble and sizzle and turn into the monstrosity you see today.”

“So, his outsides match his insides,” Hux says, completely unconcerned.

“What would he even do with a faerie? Why want one of those creatures?” Ben mutters, shaking his head.

Faeries flourished in freedom, granting wishes to those that had granted them favors.

Hux snorts. “Are you kidding?” he says. “Who wouldn't want a faerie to do their bidding? They say that whenever merchants pass through the Woods to get to the North, there is always a danger of Unkar Plutt's men stopping their carriages.”

“That's the only time the faerie is let out of her tower,” Hux says, unable to keep his amusement at the rumor from his tone.

“The faerie just waves a hand and says something like, ' _You'll leave the carriage alone. And you'll drop your weapons_...'” He too makes the gesture, something about it making a cold wave pass through Ben. “Which is why Unkar can offer such cheap goods.”

Hux rolls eyes. “That is, if you believe that faeries exist. I still think Unkar's men raid those who pass by, but.” He shrugs again. “Oh, what does it matter? As if he's seriously caught himself a faerie...”

The other man is so very close.

When had he come so close?

“Thank you, Ren, for bringing me to the Market, but it was a waste,” Hux says, his lips quirking up, his clear green eyes so very bright.

“Hux... do you know where exactly that tower would be?” Ben says, voice cracking. He sounds young and weak and foolish and everything that he hates.

“No... not exactly,” Hux says, his eyes meeting Ben's. They're reddened at the corners, dark circles surrounding them underneath, pale, sallow skin surroudning. He looks so tired.

How many hours has he worked for four coppers?

“Not exactly?”

Hux's mouth twists, just a little. “I do... work for a trader of sorts,” he admits. “If anything, he'd know which areas of the Woods to avoid...”

Ben's heart leaps through his throat.

“You'll ask for me?”

Hux nods, eyes falling. He shifts his feet upon the ground. “I'll... look for one of his maps. Surely, he'd mark something like that, yes?”

Ben smiles so wide it nearly hurts. His hood falls back, away from his face as he steps forwards, scooping Hux up into a hug. It's so easy—so terribly easy—to lift up the other man and spin him.

Hux gives him a sour look, even after Ben has set him down.

“Yes... alright...” he manages, brushing invisible dirt from his clothing. “Let's make our leave.” Hux pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Oh no, no,” Ben insists. This time, he's the one to grab Hux by the wrist. “Let's get you some shoes.”

“We're not returning to Unkar,” Hux snarls, slapping at Ben's overlarge hand.

“We won't,” Ben insists, “I promise. Somewhere else.”

Instead he leads them back to that brick and mortar store, that sign above it signifying just what was sold.

Ben is the one to open the door, poking his head in before the rest of his body.

“Hi Maz,” Ben calls out, just as they enter.

The old woman, thick-rimmed glasses hanging from her nose looks up. “Oh,” she says, hardly reacting to Ben's sudden appearance or the friend of his at his side. “What do you need this time?”

*

 

“Phasma,” Ben says, panting. “Break.”

The woman has hardly broken a sweat, even under her heavy chrome armor. She nods, lowering her saber. She sheathes it before stretching her arms above her head. “Already?” Phasma teases. “Late night?”

Ben collapses to the ground, nodding, parting his mouth as if to speak.

Phasma interrupts—that awful woman.

“Wonder who you were sleeping with this time,” Phasma remarks. “Did they steer you around by the ears? I've always wondered that.”

Ben reaches up, pulling his hair free from the hastily made bun. “Phasma,” he complains. “Stop... It's not like that. I was just... with a friend.”

“Doesn't sound very convincing,” she murmurs, winking. “Promise I won't tell a soul.” The devil is practically purring, as smug as a cat.

Ben sighs.

“Do you,” he mutters, something low. “Do you know when Poe will return?”  
“Poe... Poe Dameron?” Phasma says, throwing him a towel. “The Queen's Knight? The guy who talks to horses as if they are his children?”

“The only Poe Dameron, Phas,” Ben says. He wipes his face with the towel, then throws it aside, onto the ground. “You didn't really answer my question...”

“We're in completely different knighthoods,” Phasma teases. “Why would I—little Captain of the Guards—know anything about the Queen's Knight, the Royal Commander of our great army! Unless,” she says, winking. “Is he the one you'd like between your bedsheets?”  
“Oh shut it Phas,” Ben says, standing up from where he'd been sitting. “You know I was thinking to have you be my Knight when I become King, but now... I'm not sure if I want that.” He sighs.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Phasma says, swooning. She lets out a bark of laughter. “You can't threaten me with that. I'm perfectly happy where I am. And both you and I know how badly you do not want to rule,” Phasma says, finally becoming serious. That easy smile falls from her face.

“Why do you need Poe? Did something serious happen? When-- when you were out in the city?” Her voice lowers into something even more sombre. “You know I'm here for you. Did something--”

“I think I have a lead on Rey.”

That shuts her up.

Phasma blinks, mouth opening and closing. She simply breathes, staring.

“Explain.”

“The commoner I've been... befriending,” Ben says, running a hand through sweaty hair. “He told me about a rumor. That a certain trader has been cursed by a faerie, a faerie he keeps locked in a tower, only to be let out to steal from traders passing by in caravans...”

Phasma furrows her brows, shaking her head. “A rumor,” she says dryly. “Do you mean to save a faerie?”

“Except,” Ben says. He doesn't give her the chance to speak. He can't. “Except it seems that this faerie has the abilities of a Jedi, the abilities that Uncle Luke himself has.”

“How... curious,” Phasma remarks. “And the reason you didn't tell your mother would be?”

Ben groans.

“How can I face her and tell her this?” Ben whines. “First of all, she'd be angry with me for sneaking out and spending so much time with someone she hasn't done some spying on. Then, she'd be sad if the information would be untrue. And finally, I'd be punished so pointlessly.”

“Would you like to be punished with a purpose then?” Phasma teases, the whites of her teeth making an appearance. “A mysterious commoner to sweep you off your feet?”

“Phasma,” Ben hisses, “don't make me angrier.”

“Making you angry is a pastime of mine,” she says, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “As if you could hurt me.” She snickers. “Well then, Benny boy, we'll just have to wait for Poe and hope that he'll be discrete.” She winks then, turning to grab a canteen of water and drinks.

*

 

Dinner is a quiet affair.

Only Ben and his mother, sitting at either end of a long table.

Han Solo had left the palace, the Capital City, without a word, going off on one of his own adventures.

(Knowing the man, he'd already be halfway to Kashyyyk, off on some other misadventure with his Wookie friend.)

Leia pauses, stilling her fork and knife, daring to look up, daring to look at her son.

“Ben, I heard from Miss Angetenar,” she says, speaking slowly. “About your attendance to your dance lessons... or lack of attendance, really.” Leia sighs, putting down her utensils.

“Ben, you can't just skip your dancing lessons,” his mother scolds over dinner. Her hair is in braids, held away from her face. It doesn't help to hide the bags that grow underneath Leia's eyes. Every movement betrays her exhaustion.

“It's so early in the morning,” he complains. “I don't--”

“I don't want to hear it,” Leia says. “Courtly dances are important for you to know, especially with the Festival of Lights coming so soon... I won't have you be rude to the visiting nobles and royals--”

“Why should I care about them?” Ben says, leaning forwards. He presses his palms against the table, against the textured cloth. “Naboo will never leave us, not as long as they remember where Grandmother came from. Tatooine too would never agree to dissent. The cities of Hosnia owe us great debts. So why try to keep them with us by spending money on useless things when we can spend money on our own infrastructure--?”

“Ben,” Leia says, high-pitched and indignant. She reaches up, massaging her temples, where her hair begins to grey.

Four angry lines beside each eye, the stretch of skin beside her nose and her mouth.

He sees for once just how... _old_ his mother's become.

“It's... important to keep the peace,” Leia say, tired, weary, beaten down. “We... can't allow sympathy for the fallen Empire to surge. Not so soon. Not ever.”

This is not the Princess that had lead the small army to victory against the Empire. This is the Queen, a woman who's had to give up her ideals to keep things the same.

To keep things stagnant.

To never let things get worse, but to never help them get better either.

His mother, a coward.

Ben stands, and in his haste, he topples over his fair.

It falls, crashing against the stone floor with a resounding noise.

“You're so afraid. So afraid to live to see another Empire emerge. Then show them you're capable, show them your power,” Ben shouts, echoing through the wide and barren room, “and then maybe, just maybe, you won't be so afraid.”

He turns, leaving the room, incapable of meeting his mother's shocked brown eyes.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter !  
> I noticed this fic has 2k hits, wow! It made me so happy to see. :^)
> 
> EDIT Feb 25: The fic has fanart now!  
> http://ee-void.tumblr.com/post/157698495050/ren-jumps-into-the-pool-of-water-that-collects-and  
> Huge huge thanks to Martin !!

The Festival of the Lights approaches, coming closer by the day. The days grow longer and hotter. Armitage sweats, a bead rolling down the side of his neck and creeping underneath his clothing.

“Excuse me, sir?” he says, a little more helpless than he'd like to appear.

Lord Hux looks at him, his thin lips twisting in a sneer. “Have you gone deaf as well, boy?” he says, shaking his head. His hair begins to grey at the temples. His face is bears lines, marks of his age. “I said that you won't be needed--”

“Have you already arranged with someone to do the work at Seatown?” Armitage can't help but ask, brows raised.

“But of course,” Brendol says, rolling his eyes. Armitage hadn't even needed to ask. “The last time, your lack of skill and social grace had us booted from Lord Gyyll's residence. To ensure our standing amongst the upper class, you will stay behind to take care of this house.”

Lord Hux says everything so dryly, so very unimpressed with Armitage's reactions, with the confusion Armitage has landed in. “Don't think for a moment that you'll get off scott-free with all your lazing about. And don't you even consider stealing from the gracious Hux family...” His eyes blaze, righteous fury. “I'll know.”

“Very well,” Armitage says, nodding.

It's always been his job, his duty, since the last of the other servants had been dismissed. Being so suddenly stripped of responsibility for the three men—for even so brief a period as a week—is dizzying.

Just what is he to do instead?

If half his chores just disappeared? If his master left him on his own?

“Shall I carry on, maintaining the house and grounds as usual?” Armitage asks.

“But of course,” Lord Hux says, walking off without another word.

Armitage lets out a puff of air, brushing the back of his hand against his forehead, wiping away sweat. His hair sticks to the back of his neck uncomfortably. He slumps, suddenly tired of keeping so very straight and so very still.

*

Seatown is a city beside the ocean, bringing in fresh fish every day. The main port to Alderaan, Seatown is bustling with fishermen and sea women and traders and explorers who dare to try to cross the sea.

Summertime and the annual Festival of the Lights brings in only more people—rich folk, nobility, royalty from Capital City and even royalty from other nations.

All of them, visiting a small city of Alderaan, to witness as lanterns are sent off with celebration and with grief.

If he were to stand on the roof of the Hux family house at just the right moment, then perhaps he'd see those lanterns, mere pinpricks of light from such a distance travel out to see.

A tradition that started with Naboo and Alderaan joining forces under the rule of Queen Padme.

“She's wonderful, truly,” Barnaby breathes out, cheeks pink and eyes bright, thinking of a different woman. His sighs are long, drawn out, lovelorn things. “Lady Elore of the Tano family is so clever and funny... And oh so beautiful--” Barnaby hisses as Armitage pulls a tad too hard while braiding his hair.

“Hey, Ari,” he says, snatching up Armitage's wrist, nails digging in. “Be gentle.”

“Yes sir,” Armitage says, swallowing back any inflection. Barnaby lets go, allowing Armitage to continue carefully arranging the young man's hair. He does a simple plait, beading in little bobbles of decoration.

 _Pity, he grow up to be like his mother,_ he thinks, lips tugging downwards in a sneer.

He stills, finding control over his features, doesn't let anything get to him, even if the skin around his wrist stings now, four deep indentations all too obvious.

They leave at noon—Lord Hux, Barnaby, and Alastair.

And then the house is his for a whole lonely week.

*.

It might be a bit presumptuous to think that Armitage could get away with much.

But at the very least, he will not be starved of company.

“Come along Millicent,” he tells the cat, ushering her in.

It's the most daring thing he's ever done.

Millicent meows, looking up at him with her bright green eyes, as if to agree with him.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Armitage tells the cat.

She murps, doing so, hopping onto one of the couches and curling herself into a neat ball. Rays of sunshine filter in through the curtains, making her orange coat a more fiery red.

He can't help but smile at the sight.

Armitage turns quickly, returning to the kitchen and filling a bowl with cool water. He places it on the floor there, just in case dear Millicent needs it.

Armitage takes two steps, standing in between the living room and the kitchen and takes a deep breath. He straightens his spine, resting his hands behind his back.

Is this how it would feel if the house were his own?  
His skin buzzes with nervous, frantic energy, head becoming heavy, all pointing to exhaustion or an oncoming headache. Either way, an unpleasant start to his freedom.

A knock at the door disturbs his train of thought. He freezes then, eyes trailing back up to where Millicent rests. His skin chills, cold sweat pouring from him. Even swallowing his own spit feels much too loud.

 _Back already?_ he thinks. _Have I forgotten to pack something?_

“Armitage? It's me,” says an all too familiar mousy voice. “Dopheld Mitaka? Do you remember?” The man falls silent, knocking on the front door again. “Please would you let me in?”

He takes a moment to stand there and sigh before rushing to open the door.

“Mitaka,” Armitage greets.

“Armitage,” Mitaka says, craning his neck to look inside of the house. “You left the gate open... Would you let me in?” He smiles too, weak and watery.

He steps aside, letting the other man in. “I must apologize. Lord Hux didn't leave any sort of payment for your work last time--”

Mitaka waves a dismissive hand. “It's alright, it's alright,” he insists, eyes focused somewhere else. He frowns, a tiny pouty sort of thing and walks to the couch. “A cat?” he asks.

Millicent blinks lazily at him and then lets out a less than concerned murp.

Armitage is quick to follow. “Yes,” he says, cheeks flushing. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. “If it's a problem--”

“She's so cute,” Mitaka says instead, reaching out rather hesitantly, just itching to touch Millicent's soft fur. “Oh,” he says, eyes widening as he stands straight and looks to Armitage.

“What is it?”

“Someone is waiting for you at your usual meeting spot,” Mitaka says, shooing him away. “Hurry up and meet him.”

“Someone is waiting for me...” he murmurs, heels tapping against one another. His head grows just a tad heavier. Armitage turns, heading for the door. He pauses. “Wait,” he says, shaking his head, even as the headache lodges itself firmly between his eyes. “What about you?”

Mitaka smiles. “I'll take care of the house. Now, go along. Shoo,” he says, soft and sweet, standing firm.

The fog settles in and before he even realizes it, he's walking away from the Hux household, the river on his mind.

*

Ren sits beside the river side, stuffing his face with strange red berries. “Oh,” he says when he sees Armitage, coming out muffled. He rushes to his feet, nearly tripping over his long black garments. “Hey.”

Armitage's eyes travel from Ren to the horse, drinking from the cool water. “Hay is for horses,” he says.

“Was that supposed to be a joke? You're not very funny, I'm afraid,” Ren says, smile lopsided on his face. He rolls his eyes, patting his horse's side. “Wanna come along?”

Armitage comes closer, sweat dripping down his neck. “Just where are you heading?”

Ren shrugs, too casual to be true. “Was thinking about going to the source of the river.”

Northwest then, further into the Woods.

“Not going to Seatown for the Festival?” Armitage asks.

Ren scowls, brows furrowing low. “I was... forbidden from going.”

“What did you do this time?” Armitage asks, rolling his eyes.

“What haven't I done?” Ren says tiredly, standing quickly, putting away the container of berries in some hidden pocket, and climbing onto his horse. He extends a hand and Armitage takes it, allowing himself to be helped onto the creature. Ren's arms wind around his waist as he takes up the horses reins.

“Would you believe it if I told you the Queen herself admonished my dancing?” Ren says, low and mournful, as he often talks, sounding completely serious .

Armitage can't help the embarrassing tittering laugh that escapes him. “I'd believe it without a doubt. You stepped on my toes during our dance at the Hunt quite a bit.”

“Vengeance,” Ren replies. “For when you stepped on mine.”

Armitage rolls his eyes.

The horse trots on and on, cutting through fairylands.

*

The river's source is a waterfall, further north and higher up, out of Alderaan and encroaching on a different nation's borders. That's as far as Armitage could tell from the map Lord Hux had pinned up in his office.

Ren didn't take him as far as that, instead finding a smaller, more pathetic waterfall of sorts.

“This is it?” Armitage murmurs.

“Did you think I'd take you to Hoth? Long way there and we're horribly underdressed,” Ren says. He stills the horse and jumps off. Somewhere along the way, he shrugs off his cloak, tossing it to his ground. His shirt then follows. And then his boots and trousers. “This one's better. We can swim in it.”

Armitage looks away, scoffing. “Indecent.”

Ren jumps into the pool of water that collects and swells just underneath the rapids, leaping right over oversized boulders with his oversized body. He makes a big splash, diving deep, and resurfaces, water streaming down his form. Lazily, he pulls his hair away from his face, big ears sticking out almost charmingly.

“It's hot out, cool here,” Ren says, wading easily. “Come on in.”

Armitage lets himself down from the horse. The creature—used to her ridiculous master—hadn't even reacted at the ruckus.

Armitage averts his eyes from the water, looking anywhere but Ren's exposed forehead, the beginnings of that broad chest, and everything else that lurked below the surface.

(And yet, who is he to be so suddenly bothered by male nudity?)

“Absolutely not,” he says, scowling as fiercely as he could. “I'd... burn.”

“Leave on your shirt,” Ren suggests.

“No, I'm not risking ruining a perfectly good uniform shirt,” Armitage says, wrinkling his nose. “Besides, the water looks filthy.”

Ren makes a show of looking about himself. “The water looks fine to me,” he insists. It does, truly, even as he looks for excuses. Crystal blue water falls, the rush of it creating a soothing sound. The pool of water is surrounded by rocks, all sunny places that Millicent would enjoy lounging on.

“Then take my shirt,” Ren says, now floating lazily upon his back—an even more scandalous sight Armitage must tear his eyes away from. “I don't care if it's ruined.”

Why should he? With a physique like that?

Armitage sighs. “Very well.” He crouches, snatching up Ren's discarded garment and walks off, finding a particularly tall boulder to stand behind.

“Shy?” Ren's aggravating voice asks, even as Armitage strips himself of his uniform and tries to somehow fold each piece, leaving them all neatly arranged upon an overhanging tree branch. He toes his way out of the dress shoes and socks Ren had purchased for him, leaving them beside a rock.

“Absolutely,” Armitage says dryly, pulling the pilfered shirt over his head, taking cover.

It's too large—which is honestly not a surprise. The black fabric hangs loose on his frame, falling down midway past Armitage's thighs. His pale shoulder peaks its way out of the collar. Silently, he huffs, adjusting the shirt.

“Jump on in, princess,” Ren calls. “You're taking far two long.”

Splashes, one followed closely by another, almost sounding like...

_Is he seriously swimming?_

Armitage climbs over a rock, wobbling this way and that to catch his balance on the uneven surface. Ren does not laugh, thankfully enough. He enters the water gingerly, sticking one leg in first, as if to test the temperature.

Ren stills, for once, his dark eyes study Armitage, running up and down his lines.

He makes his way into the water, settling, resting his back against those massive rocks, their sides worn smooth by the water. Armitage lets out a soft sigh, relaxing. Slowly, he brings his hand up, wetting his sweaty face with the cool water.

“You're so thin,” Ren remarks.

Armitage rolls his eyes. “I am aware.”

Ren swims over, arms working through the water, glistening when they pull above. He looks at Armitage with far too much care, examining him closer.

“Why...” Ren starts, inelegant, brows furrowed, lips pursed. “Why hadn't I noticed?”

Armitage shrugs, the shirt, heavy with water, falling down his shoulder. He fixes it, bringing it back up again. “The uniform is a flattering thing,” he says, a sort of explanation. “The shoulders are padded. Anything to make me look like a larger man.” He smiles then, something weak.

Ren doesn't think it's funny.

He doesn't even allow his lips to quirk upwards.

“Do your employers... pay you enough to eat? Is your... home situation okay?” Ren asks all of these delicate questions, managing to sound indelicate though it all. “You know,” he starts, “if... if... it's bad, you just have to tell me. I can pull some strings at get you a job and a home within castle walls.”

Armitage sighs, leaning his head back against the stone. “Now,” he murmurs. “That'd just be too easy, wouldn't it?”

He will not indebt himself to Ren too.

Ren sighs, running a hand through his hair again, plastering it against his skin. He rests against the stone, a comfortable distance from Armitage, just close enough to reach out and touch, if one of them would choose to do so.

They stay like that for a while, quietly enjoying the water.

*

“Have you seen my hair tie?” Armitage says, sitting up upon a rock, looking down at the clear water, searching, searching. Somehow, he'd lost it, sending his soaked copper hair spilling down his shoulders. He wipes hair away from his face, annoyed at having to do that at all.

Ren lounges on one of the rocks beside Armitage's own, soaking up the sunlight. He tilts his head, looking into the pool. “A hair tie?” he says, snorting. “You'll never find it. Probably was washed down the river by now.”

Armitage shakes his head. “Wonderful,” he scoffs.

Ren looks at him, resting his cheek against his fist. “Having you hair down suits you,” he remarks. Then he sits up, as if lighting has struck him, a blazing smile upon his face. “Next time we meet, I'll bring some hair products. Imagine how your hair will shine if you use something other than harsh soap.”

Armitage rolls his eyes again. “Don't be ridiculous, Ren.”

He shakes his head. “No, no. I insist,” he says, rolling over on his rock and reaching out, fingers brushing the exposed skin of Armitage's knee. “And you'd have to keep your hair down after, for just a bit.”

“It's impractical,” Armitage says, rolling his eyes.

“But it'd look nice,” Ren says.

“Is that all that matters?” Armitage huffs out, giving up the hunt.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scenes at the sorta waterfall have been some of the ones I've been most excited to write (next to, of course, the Ball scenes). Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My computer again is freaking out on me. I think I can fix whats wrong, but I might have to go on hiatus if that isn't the case. Sorry!!
> 
> No warnings again.

“Ben,” his uncle greets him as he returns, seeming to have waited for him at the stables all the time he was gone. Luke is grey, features sagging, weighed down by his grief, from missing his missing daughter. He turns his cloudy eyes upon his nephew, saying, “just where did you go?”

Ben climbs off the back of his horse, landing heavily on his feet. The floor of the stables is growing disorderly—the stableboys having gone off to Seatown with his mother.

Luke is dressed in his heavy Jedi robes, wrapped around himself, even during this balmy summer evening.

Ben removes the saddle from Saber, giving her a loving pat and a sugar cube.

“What do you care?” Ben asks, knocking his shoulder against Luke's as he passes. He returns to saddle to its place, throwing it down without a care. He's not ready to hear about Luke's worrying.

“You're my nephew,” Luke says, something soft, brows furrowing in place. “And a former padawan... of course I care about you. I'd... hate to lose you too.”

Ben snorts, leaving the stables without a second thought.

Soon, Rey would be returned to her proper place and Luke could stop his whining.

“You know she cares,” Luke says, at his elbow already. “Leia... has a lot resting on her shoulders.”

God, is the man persistent.

He rolls his eyes. “Is that why _she_ left me?” he spits.

Luke crosses his arms, huffing quietly. “You didn't want to go to Seatown,” he says, shaking his head. “I thought you'd be happy to stay behind.”

“It's the action itself that's insulting,” Ben snarls.

Luke doesn't know quite what to say after that, mouth falling open, hand stretching out. He cannot stop his own nephew. He cannot quite understand him anymore.

*

Hux is waiting for him beside the river. His hair is drawn up in a severe ponytail, cheekbones looking all sharp as usual. His clear eyes meet Ben's own. “There you are,” Hux says, rolling his eyes. “I've been waiting.”

In his hand, he holds some folded piece of paper, brown and wrinkled.

“You've got the map?” Ben asks.

“I copied one of the Master's,” Hux says, looking down at the wrinkled paper. The skin of his neck is pink, creeping down under the collar of his shirt. A sun burn?

Ben gets off of Saber, letting his horse trot by herself to the river's edge and drink. He has a few carrots for her too, for being such a good horse these days, for not giving him any attitude.

He sits beside Hux, taking the map from him and unfolding it.

Ben recognizes Capital City, marked with a crown-like shape, the lines shaky at best. The lines span into roads—both the major ones and the minor ones and all sorts of roads in-between. There are no words marking the places on the map, only symbols.

An area to the northwest, where the Woods thin and the air dries.

It's marked with a circle.

“So that's the place?” Ben asks, pointing at the mark.

Hux nods. “That's the area at the very least,” he mutters. “At least... I think it is.”

Ben hums. “I'll give the map to a friend... He'll check it out. Thanks, Hux,” he says, reaching out and touching Hux's knee. “You have no clue how helpful you've been.”

“Alright,” Hux says, rolling his eyes, his cheeks warm and red. “Hope you find whatever it is that you need... Don't get yourself killed for something stupid.”

“Ha,” Ben says. “As if I would die before we do something about that hair of yours.”

Hux rolls his eyes, even as Ben withdraws two vials of hairstuff.

“I am so very excited,” Hux says, dry and so terribly bored.

Ben smacks Hux's shoulder. “Be nice, will you?” he says, unable to stop the laughter from bubbling from his throat.

*

Poe returns a day ahead of everyone else, riding atop his horse. He's dressed in loose, comfortable clothing, hair windswept, an easy smile across his face. “Ben,” he says, even as he slows his horse and hops from the side of it. “What are you doing sulking here?”

“I'm not sulking,” Ben says, seated on a haystack, arms crossed over his chest. He can feel the frown upon his face.

It might look as if he is sulking.

But he is not.

Truly.

“Kinda looks that way,” Poe says, waving about his face. “You always seem to... have that look.”

Ben scowls.

“What's up?” Poe says, light and airy. He's relaxed, without a worry. The Festival of Lights has gone well without Ben there. Poe has probably danced half the night away, smiling pleasantly like the Prince Leia wished Ben could be.

He shouldn't be surprised.

“What a face,” Poe says. “You look serious for once...”

“I'm always serious,” he says.

Poe shakes his head. “There's a _smidge_ of a difference between being serious and... tantrum prone.”

“I don't throw tantrums,” Ben mutters.

“Okay, okay,” Poe says, not believing Ben at all but still holding up his hands in surrender. “What is it that you wanted to talk to me about?” He seats himself down on an adjacent haystack, sinking into the material.

“I've heard a rumor--” Ben starts.

Poe runs his hands through his hair, wincing. “Please tell me it's nothing embarrassing. I swear my men and I have kept drinking to a minimum since our last drunken singing encounters were made jokes of.”

Ben shoots him an odd look, shaking his head. “It's not about you,” he sighs, exasperated. “It's... about Rey.”

“Oh,” is all that Poe can manage, easy smile falling from his handsome face.

*

Poe Dameron does not wait for his Queen's special permission to ride off and do some reconnaissance. He leaves before she and her entourage returns, leaving without telling Duke and Master Jedi Luke a word, but leaving a sealed letter for someone to give to Leia.

He takes only himself, his horse, and his dog, a small, plump thing unfortunately named Beebee.

Poe leaves, a lopsided grin upon his face. “Promise not to antagonize your mother too much?” he says to Ben.

He rolls his eyes. “That's a bit difficult,” Ben mutters. It seems his every word grates on her nerves now.

“Well, you gotta try, buddy,” Poe says, clapping Ben's shoulder, nodding to himself and setting off, high upon his horse.

*

And soon enough the weather grows colder, leaves turn colors and fall from their trees. Autumn finds Alderaan. Poe does not.

Phasma is unforgiving when it comes to swordsmanship lessons, even though all Ben wants to do is sleep in late and go for long walks in the Woods with Hux.

Even as the sun beats down upon them in the empty courtyard, she schools him, again and again and again. Phasma wears thin, leather armor, her cropped hair slick against her skull with sweat.

Ben is no better. He wears a sleeveless shirt and baggy pants, clothing worn down by his sweat. His hair hangs in his face, a strand of hair burning against his eye.

She beats him, more easily now that he is tired, knocking the sword out of his hand.

Ben curses, clutching his fist close to him.

“Sorry,” the older woman says, not sounding sorry at all. “You alright there?”

He nods. “I'm well enough,” Ben mutters, crouching to pick up the sword again. As he does so, his hand explodes in pain. He curses again, falling onto one knee.

“Really doesn't seem like you're okay,” Phasma says. She sighs, hauling him to his feet, avoiding touching the injured hand. “Come on,” she says. “Let's get you to the healers.”

Phasma pulls him inside the castle, the halls much cooler than the outside air. The ivory halls are devoid of employees—no guard or servant stops them on their merry way as Phasma takes him through the halls of the castle.

They're so empty, devoid of the usual staff that scurries about.

Had this been planned?

“Phasma,” Ben begins. “Where is--?”

“So, where did you send Poe off to?” Phasma asks cooly, looking this way and that, as if to check if they are truly alone. It wouldn't do her well to have _that_ overheard.

“Huh?”

She tuts. “That isn't really an answer,” Phasma says, ushering him forth. “And we don't have much time completely alone... just where is that loyal knight of your mother?” She sounds amused, even a little wry.

“Why? Is _mother_ asking?” Ben spits.

She rolls his eyes. “I'm loyal to you, my Prince,” she promises. “Just wondering if you had him killed for me to achieve a promotion earlier...”

“What?” Ben squawks, outraged. He takes one step away from her, and then another. “Phasma,” he practically growls. “Do you think me so low as to orchestrate another person's death? A person I've known since childhood?”

She shrugs, eyes closed, not really caring about the answer. “Just curious. Can't fault me for asking.” Phasma's eyes slide open, looking so terribly bored with it all. “But there was a reason he left, and it has everything to do with you.”

Ben sighs, running his uninjured hand over his face.

Hiding it from Phasma had been difficult, with her being his best (only) friend within castle walls and with her being _Phasma_ of all people.

“I found a rumor... about Rey,” Ben says. “And I asked him to go investigate.”  
“Alone? For so long?” Phasma says. “Oh, Ben, I think he might have just died. Maybe he got caught by some faeries or maybe he got swallowed by the Sinking Sands.” She sounds amused rather than anything else.

“Shut up Phasma,” Ben mutters, just knowing what a face he must be making: angry brows furrowed down, lips curled down in a sneer.

“And look where we are,” Phasma says, light and airy, even as they turn the corner. “Hello Master Luke.”

Luke looks at them both oddly. He sits on a windowsill, a book open in his lap. “I thought the two of you would come here,” he says. “The Force foretold it.”

“I'm sure,” Phasma says, pushing Ben forwards. “I leave the Prince in your capable hands.”

Ben flushes.

How much had Luke heard?  
The Jedi looks at him, raising one brow. As if hearing Ben's thoughts, he says, “I haven't heard a word of your conversation... Now, let me take a look at your hand.”

*

The next day starts with a commotion.

There, sitting in Queen Leia's throne room, is Poe's dog. Beebee, a short orange dog of some sort, is missing her owner. She looks saddened by that very fact, curled up in a miserable ball, sitting beside Leia's leg.

“We've received word from Poe,” Leia says, to the gathered generals, captains, and others. “He's gone off on some mission to look for Rey.”

Standing beside Leia, Luke looks sad, the lines of his face pulling downwards by his grief made fresh. Han stands at Luke's side, awkwardly patting the man's back.

“Poe requests backup at Jakku,” Leia says. “And that... it seems that Poe has... found Rey.”

Luke has to sit then and there, knees giving out from underneath him, tears rushing to his eyes.

The room breaks into chaos, everyone shouting over one another.

Unnoticed, Ben leaves the room.

*

 

“Are you excited?” Phasma asks him, catching up to him later. “A conference will be held.” She smirks, something vicious, eyes gleaming.

Ben pinches at the bridge of his nose. He spins on his heel, shaking his head. “They'll never agree to send forces to Jakku,” Ben mutters.

The desert town is west of the Woodsland path that Hux had circled. It isn't part of Alderaan, but part of some smaller country, viciously against Alderaan and Queen Leia's rule.

If Alderaan formerly sent a troop of soldiers, war could break out.

It's all gone to hell.

“What are you going to do now?” Phasma says, cool, calm, curious, her muscled arms crossed over her chest.

He sighs and shakes his head again, sick to his stomach.

Poe could very well lose his life in this grand mess.

It's not what Ben wanted at all.

He walks off, wordlessly, heading towards the stables.

“Just where are you going?” Phasma asks, calling after him.

“A ride,” he calls.

Phasma sighs tiredly and follows. “I'll come with,” she says.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings, once again. Slight (absolutely avoidable) angst, but that's fun.
> 
> Thanks for reading !
> 
> Edit 3/11/17: added fanart from Niibeth !! Huge thank you ; 0 ; It can be found at this link:  
> http://niibeth.tumblr.com/post/158272979288/sad-stoic-hux-from-if-the-slipper-fits-by

Autumn is always rather hectic.

Brendol Hux leaves for another trade-run, this time to some city far to the west of Alderaan, a city just filled with temples for the witches or Jedi or Sith or whatever they are even called. The city of Jedha is a dry, stifling place, or so Armitage had heard.

But the crystals they were so known for could go for a pretty penny.

Armitage stands in the kitchen, cutting vegetables up for a stew. The door to the kitchen is open, words drifting in through the narrow hallway, dragged from the heart of the living room.

“But father,” Barnaby says, in that particular voice of his, caught somewhere between a whine and a request. “Perhaps I can be of some use to you--?”

“You'll be of use here,” Brendol says, none too gently. “A man of the home. You'll be able to attend all the social gatherings while we are away. That is an advantage your brother won't have.”

Armitage slows down the movement of his knife, head tilting, all just to listen.

Barnaby shifts his weight, the clicks of his boots against the wooden floor all too audible. “I'd like to learn the family business too,” he insists. “I swear I can be of some use in--”

“Focus on your hunt for a spouse,” Brendol advises instead. “You haven't the head for math anyway, boy.”

Heavy footsteps draw near the kitchen, Lord Hux leaving an unwanted conversation and going to terrorize the help, no doubt. A common strategy.

Armitage cuts the carrots quickly, pushing them aside and starting on some strange root vegetable, bleach white and tasteless until added to a meaty broth.

“Armitage,” Brendol says, something cold, something menacing, just looking for a mistake to correct.

He stills his hand, placing down the knife before turning to face his master. He cannot meet the man's eyes. Instead he looks to Brendol Hux's throat, half hidden by an expertly tied cravat and two days worth of a growing beard.

“Yes sir?” Armitage says, hands behind his back, so perfectly obedient, so perfectly still. It almost makes him want to gag.

“See that Barnaby makes it to all the social gatherings while we are gone,” Lord Hux instructs. “And see that he is on his best behavior. I don't want to hear any reports of his sulking.”

Armitage nods, understanding. “Of course sir.”

Brendol walks off, waving a dismissive hand. “Just how long does it take for supper to appear on the table?” he mutters, just loud enough for Armitage to hear.

*

 

Armitage draws a bath for Barnaby that night.

His sleeves are rolled up, up past his elbows and yet he's somehow gotten them wet. Armitage adds a few drops of oil to the bathwater, a pleasant aroma bubbling out.

Barnaby stands in the corner of the bathroom, still quietly fuming. His hair is down from its complicated plait. It's messy, hanging before his eyes. He stands there, only wearing a silken robe, bare feet upon the tiled floor.

Armitage sighs. “You know I can hear you thinking,” he says.

“And just what am I thinking then?” Barnaby snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I can't hear your thoughts,” Armitage mutters, testing the water's temperature. Finding it acceptable, he closes the faucet. “I can only hear the gears turning in your head.” He gestures for Barnaby to enter the bathtub. “Quite loud.”

Barnaby slides off the silken robe, letting it pool around his ankles. He steps into the tub, sinking into the warm water, settling against the ivory. The water comes up to his neck. He shuts his eyes and sighs softly.

“Lean forwards,” Armitage instructs, kneeling upon the tiled ground. He picks up a small bowl and fills it with water. When Barnaby does as he says, Armitage pours the water over his head, wetting his long hair.

“It's not fair,” Barnaby mutters, eyelashes fluttering. Water trails down his pale face, past his eyes. Tears or just water from the bath, Armitage cannot tell.

“Life isn't,” Armitage murmurs. “You are to go to a Harvest party tomorrow evening. Sleep well and set your sights on that.”

Barnaby sighs, ever melodramatic, turning his head to the side, leaning his cheek upon the tub. “What am I to do?” he bemoans. “All I want to do is please father...”

“You will,” Armitage says. “He wants you to attend social gatherings, and so you will. He's drawn up a schedule for you--”

“As if you could read it, Ari,” Barnaby scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I could lie to you so easily if I wanted to.”

Armitage dumps a bowl full of water over the younger man's head without warning, leaving him sputtering. “It'd be best for us both if you just listen to your father's orders,” Armitage says. “Lady Elore might be there. Don't you owe her a dance?”

Barnaby lets out a long sigh. “I suppose I do,” he murmurs, voice soft and sweet, once again lost in his imaginings.

*

 

It's late when he's finally done.

Lord Hux and Alastair are all packed up, carriages scheduled to meet with them in the early morning. Barnaby is sleeping, his clothes for the next day's activities all laid out.

Armitage slides himself into a chair at the kitchen table. He sighs softly, his back protesting rather loudly.

In front of him sits a plate of overcooked vegetables, extras leftover from the stew. He pushes one colorless root around, lids heavy over his eyes. He stomachs another spoonful and shakes his head, so very tired.

The old grandfather clock chimes once, twice.

He looks at it spitefully. “Not enough hours in the day,” Armitage murmurs. “It feels as if even time is conspiring against me...” He lets the spoon fall, sighs, and walks to the sink.

*

 

Barnaby is easy enough to dress and style. Barnaby does most of it himself, eager to try on his new vest and trousers. His cravat only needs a little adjusting.

His cheeks are red and rosy with his excitement. Barnaby can hardly stay still as Armitage creates two tiny braids, pinning them at either side of Barnaby's head.

“Are you done yet?” Barnaby says, twisting in his seat once again. “If you take any longer, I'll miss my carriage.”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “Don't you worry, Master Barnaby,” he says. “You'll be on time to the party.”

The brat hadn't wanted to go yesterday.

Today he is overeager.

It seems Armitage can never win.

“There,” Armitage says, adding one last clip to Barnaby's head. “You're all set.”

Barnaby hurries to his feet, eager to go out, eager to have that promised dance with that girl of his.

Armitage rolls his eyes.

“Master Barnaby,” he says, following the boy down the stairs, brushing wrinkles from his uniform. He grinds his teeth, jaw feeling ready to break. “Your carriage will pass by the Market and I must pick up a package for your father. Would my taking the carriage with you be acceptable?”

“What?” Barnaby asks, a little breathless. He turns, eyes a little shiny. He scrunches up his nose. “Of course not,” he says with a little horrified shudder. “If someone saw _me_ share a carriage with a _servant_ , I'd never hear the end of it. Sorry Ari.”

Armitage nods. “Yes of course,” he says, softly, a little too quiet. “I apologize for asking.”

“The walk isn't so bad,” Barnaby says, waving one gloved hand. “Don't give me that look.”

“My apologizes,” Armitage says again, stiffly retrieving his coat, avoiding looking at the younger man.

*

 

The walk isn't very bad. It's the humiliation of having to walk that burns him, ears so very red. Armitage holds the coat closed, even against the stubborn wind. Soon, it'd be time for him to bring out the cloak Ren had gifted him.

But he has to be careful with it too.

Lord Hux and his sons could not see such a handsome little thing.

(They'd ruin it somehow. Just like they ruin everything.)

Armitage kicks a pebble, hears it scitter off.

The Market is just around the corner. He'll just pick up the supplies that Lord Hux had ordered and paid for and--

“Armitage?”

He freezes, looks up.

He knows that voice.

An older woman stands there, face wrinkled and worn. Her hair is brown, fading, cropped close to her head. She drops what she carries, letting bags fall easily to the floor.

She covers her mouth with a hand, shaking her head, eyes filling with tears.

“Oh Armitage,” she says, the first of those tears trailing down her cheeks. She closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms around him.

“Alis?” Armitage says softly. He cannot believe it. He hugs her back, arms slow to respond.

“You remember,” Alis says, pulling away, a wide smile upon her face. “I'm so glad.” She reaches up, smoothing his hair. Some has escaped from its band.

“Do you...” he blinks, feeling as if in a dream. “Do you work in Capital City?”

Alis hums. “Closeby, at least. I work for Lady Rae Sloane,” Alis says. She pauses. “My, you've grown so thin...”

Armitage rolls his eyes, suddenly indignant. “Alis,” he scolds. “I've always been thin. It's my nature.”

She clucks her tongue at him. “You haven't been eating enough,” she says, rubbing his shoulder through the dark fabric of the coat. “Have you?” Alis's eyes shine with worry. She leans close and whispers, “Are they treating you well?”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “Work is work,” he says. He has a place to sleep at night and things to fill his belly. It's not that bad.

Alis shakes her head. “Oh honey,” she says, something soft, something weak. She sighs. “It's my fault,” she says, “telling you to take care of them...” Alis rolls her eyes, berating her past actions. “I shouldn't have let them take you from me.”

“Alis, please,” Armitage says, pulling away from her grasp. He bends down, gathering everything she's dropped. It isn't too heavy, likely clothes or hats within some box. “I am not your responsibility.”

Against all odds, the woman sniffles, more tears running down her sagging cheeks. “Your mother left me in charge of you,” she says, crying, shoulders shaking with each breath. “And I left you!”

“Alis please,” Armitage says, stepping close to her, holding all her things, lips quirking down in a frown. “You know I don't have a clue what to do when someone cries.” He tries hushing her, retrieving a handkerchief from a pocket and pressing it into her trembling fingers.

She wipes at her face, sniffling loudly. “Armie,” she manages, breath hitching only slightly. “It's been so long.” Alis pockets the handkerchief and accepts her things. “Let's... let's catch up on things, shall we?”

He lets out a little huff, only slightly annoyed. (He can't hide his fondness for her, even after so many years; it just shows in the shining of his eyes.)

“Very well,” Armitage says, leading the way back into the Market.

*

 

The sun is close to falling when Armitage finally makes it to the usual spot alongside the river. The leaves fall from their branches, covering the soft ground.

Beside the river stands Kylo Ren, a smile brightening his face, cloak wrapped about his shoulders.

A woman is beside him, as tall as he is, with a shock of white-blonde hair. She laughs at something Ren says, throwing an arm over his shoulders—oh so very casually—and pulls him close for some one-armed hug.

Neither one of them has noticed him, hidden between the trees.

He has no reason to feel heartsick, no reason to feel that sickly shock of betrayal down to his belly. Armitage clenches his fists, taking in the familiar bite of nails against the skin of his palms.

(It isn't as if they were anything other than friends. But—but why does it hurt so badly?)

He backs away from the riverside clearing, turning and leaving just as quietly as he came.

There is no use to feeling this way at all, he decides, putting away his feelings, somewhere between the Woods and the Hux family's home.

He clenches his fists so tightly, he hardly notices when his palms begin to bleed.

*

 

He wrings water from the bedsheets, flapping them once, twice in the air and throws them over the clothesline. The sun's rays will dry the laundry soon enough. It's still warm enough for that.

Dress shirts and trousers of all shades litter the line. Cloaks of pale pinks and blues too hang at one end, slowly swaying with the wind. He has less laundry to do now that both Alastair and Lord Hux are away on business.

(But still, with Barnaby going to so many social events... it's not _that_ much less than usual.)

Armitage's sad set of clothing sits at the bottom of the basket. He picks up a shirt, wringing it, squeezing the cold water out, splashing the grass beneath his feet. He shakes it roughly, water splattering out with each rough shake before throwing it too over the line.

All his dark clothing looks so... gloomy besides Barnaby's colorful sets.

Armitage shakes his head.

No use with that train of thought.

Winter will begin soon enough.

And with it, he won't be able to hang the laundry outside.

And with it comes the annual Hunt.

(Perhaps he won't have to see a certain hunter and perhaps he's more than okay with that.)

Armitage stretches, bones in his back creaking and clicking back into place. He rests his arms behind his back, left hand gripping his right wrist, and faces the light breeze. He shuts his eyes, flittering out the afternoon sun.

Flowers.

It smells like flowers, so strong, sitting on almost every available surface within the Hux household, their aroma carried out of opened windows. All gifts from some suitor of Barnaby's.

Perhaps, he thinks a little bitterly, it'd be nice to be the object of such affections.

Perhaps, he thinks, it'd make him feel a little like a king.

Armitage shakes his head, willing the nonsensical thoughts to fall from his head. He is a servant, moreover he is a Life Debt. There is no time to spare for something as silly as love for a person like him.

He bends down, picking up a pair of his trousers, and repeats the process.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings, once again.  
> Huge shoutout to archighoul, my beta !!
> 
> Plus, amazing news, there's been three fanart pieces based on this fic:
> 
> http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/post/158342899836/cinderella-au-kylux-by-flukeoffate-on
> 
> http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/post/158459401461/winter-hunt-dance-by-flukeoffate-well-then-would
> 
> These two by flukeoffate are based on earlier chapters' scenes, memorably their first interaction and the dance at the Great Hunt.
> 
> http://ee-void.tumblr.com/post/158480916440/hux-in-an-outfit-from-gaygalaxyguys-fic-if-the
> 
> this lovely piece by ee-void is Hux in one of his future outfits (so, mild spoiler warning?)
> 
> Big shoutout and huge thanks to these artists!
> 
> Edit 3/18/17: I've made another moodboard for this fic! You can see it here:
> 
> http://gaygalaxyguy.tumblr.com/post/158551139557/if-the-slipper-fits-a-kylux-cinderella-au

“I want to participate,” he tells his mother, standing stiffly before her, head held high. “In the Hunt,” he adds, as if it were not clear.

Leia frowns at him, lips thinning in concentration. “Ben, you participated last year,” she says. She blinks, shaking her head just slightly. “It was risky then. Why do you continue doing this...?”

He grinds his teeth as she speaks.

It's only through force that he convinces his jaw to stop its terrible work. Ben lets out a long breath of air. “I would like to serve as a Knight of Ren. That is where my passion lies.”

Leia.

Leia does not react as Ben had hoped.

She seems to deflate at first, chin lowering, eyes failing to hide her sudden burst of disappointment. Disappointment in him. And just what a man he's grown up to be.

“Mother,” Ben says, before she can find her words. “I--”

Leia waves a tired hand. “Ben, don't start this again,” she says.

“Why not?” he says. “What's so different about this year than last?”

“I thought if I allowed you the opportunity once, you'd be satisfied,” Leia says. “I now know you'll never be satisfied until--”

“Until what?”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Until you abandon your responsibility,” Leia says, scorn marking her words. “Ben, I know you want nothing to do with Alderaan.” And how her heart breaks with those words. “But there is no other heir. It would go against Luke's vows and Rey is gone. I am...” and here she pauses, frowning sharply. “--far too old to have another child.”

The way she looks at him, disappointment thinly veiled, her sorrow just flowing from her small form.

“You are Alderaan's future,” Leia says, reaching up, touching his face. Her thumb strokes his cheek. “You must embrace it.”

Ben covers her hand with his rough one and lets out a sigh. “If... Poe finds Rey, would you allow her to become the heir in my place?” He looks at her, eyes never wavering from hers.

Leia shakes her head slowly. “Ben,” she says, “she's been gone for so long.”

“But--”

She clicks her tongue. Then her shoulders slump, eyes shutting slowly.

The posture of defeat.

“If,” Leia begins, eyes flickering back to him. “If Rey is found, then you will ask her. Only if she would be willing to study hard and only after she's been found to be proficient, would she be allowed to take on Alderaan.”

Ben smiles, brightly and fiercely. “I believe in her abilities.”

Leia looks at him oddly. “The last you saw her, she was a child.” She drops her hand, letting it fall at her side. She laughs, just a little, brief thing. “Alright. I'll accept your condition, but--” and how Ben hates that _but_ , “--you are not allowed to skip out on your lessons, any of them.”

“Not even dancing?” Ben groans.

“Especially not dancing,” Leia says.

He rolls his eyes and sighs. “It's the least important for diplomacy.”

“It's important for the Ball,” Leia says. She looks at him oddly, head tilting slightly. And then she smiles, rolling her eyes in a fond way. “Have you forgotten already?”

“Next winter, a Ball will be held in place just before the Great Hunt,” Leia says slowly. “Nobility and royalty from all corners of the world will come to your Coming of Age Ball.”

“Coming of Age?” Ben repeats, shaking his head. He lets out a short bark of laughter. “Mother, I'm already twenty-one.”

One of her thin brows shoots up even as her lips twist up in a terribly amused smile. “It's to look for a spouse for you,” Leia says. “When you're married and ready to take on the throne, only then will you be considered of age.”

Looking at her own choice, he isn’t too sure he’ll like his betrothed very much.

*

He does what he always does when life becomes too hard.

Ben sneaks out to the stables, pulling that ratty black cloak tighter around him.

“Saber,” he whispers to the horse.

The horse blinks slowly, making a little nicker, answering his call. He smooths the fur along her side, rubbing her softly.

“Ready to go?”

It's a silly question.

Saber is always ready to go out on adventures. She tosses her head, as if to tell him that.

“So Saber,” he says, once he's secured the saddle upon her back and clambered onto the horse. “What do you say? Should we go out to the river?”

She tosses her head, like she’s saying ' _of course!_ '

*

The trees within the Woods are a strange mix of different types—noble Evergreens growing beside trees that lose their leaves, trees that bear fruit. It has no order, no sense.

And still, amongst the chaos, Ben finds himself feeling most at home.

He pauses, just as the river comes in sight.

Before it stands a massive deer, antlers large and twisted. The creature stands so perfectly still, so perfectly silent, large eyes meeting Ben's own.

His heart beats far too loudly in his chest. Surely, the deer can hear him.

Slowly, the creature turns away. It does not care about Ben's presence, does not see him as a threat.

Ben jumps off of his horse, feet landing heavily against the ground. His hands twitch, just itching for his bow and arrows. The deer is so very vulnerable. It'd be so easy, so terribly easy to lodge an arrow within the deer's body. Its skin could make a beautiful cloak, its antlers would go for exorbitant amounts of money.

And the meat... could make so many dishes.

His mouth just waters at the thought.

He takes a step forwards, crushing a shriveled up leaf underfoot.

That's when the deer's head shoots up, every inch of its brown body tensing for a good long second. And then the creature bolts, not majestic at all, panicked and threatened, deciding that perhaps Ben is a threat.

Ben sighs, uncurls his fists.

He walks to the river and squats. Cupping his hands, he plunges them into the icy water, brings them back up to his mouth, and drinks.

“I thought I'd have to chase that deer off again,” comes that familiar, dry voice. Hux does not sound too amused. “I guess you hunters never change.”

Ben looks up, a smile growing across his face.

Hux wears that fur cloak Ben had given him so long ago, pulled tightly against his frame. He is thin lipped, giving his best disapproving glare. It does not work—cheeks far too pink to look even vaguely threatening.

“There you are,” is all Ben can think to say.

Hux blinks, that glare falling from his face, even as his mouth falls open. “Huh?” he manages, totally and utterly inelegant. “Did you think killing an animal would summon me? Am I some sort of demon to you?”

Ben laughs, shaking his head. “No, no, never that.” He stretches out a hand.

Hux looks at it warily, as if Ben's hand will bite. “Just what are you doing...?” he says, warily, like a frightened animal.

He holds out his hand evenly, tilting his head. “Hux, wanna go to the Market?”

Hux blinks. “Whatever for?”

“There's this food stall that I like,” Ben says. “Always too shy to go there all by my lonesome.” That's a lie—but a lie to make it feel more like it's Hux doing him a favor.

He rolls his eyes and hands his hand over.

Ben strokes a finger across the back of Hux's hand, just taking in those cold knuckles. He smiles, bright and easy. “Well, let's go then,” he says. “Hope you like chicken.”

Ben leads them back to where Saber is waiting.

If a horse could look smug, it'd be making the same face as Saber.

*

He pulls up his hood when they get close to the Market.

If Hux notices, he doesn't say a word, sitting in front of Ben on the horse, leaning against Ben's chest. If this were any other person, Ben would have assumed that they simply fell asleep.

But it's Hux.

Who seems to avoid sleeping as if his life depends on it.

“We're here,” Ben announces, hot hair warming the side of Hux's face.

Hux stirs. “Hm?” he manages, something small and fragile and utterly unlike him. It makes Ben feel something silly, makes him find Hux _endearing_ at times.

He laughs a little. “Did you really fall asleep?” Ben asks. “You know, if you were tired, you could have--”

Hux leans away, stretching his back. Ben hears several distinct _pops_ as Hux does this, along with the beginnings of a yawn. “Don't be ridiculous, Ren. Though, I suppose that must be a little hard for you.”

Well. Sometimes Hux can be endearing.

“Say what you'd like,” Ben teases. “I know the truth! You fell asleep, like a baby.” Then, without warning, Ben scrambles off the horse, landing roughly on the ground.

Hux wipes at his right eye, watching him warily with his left.

“Here,” Ben says, stretching out both hands. “I'll help you down.”

Hux rolls his eyes, ignores the offer, and gets down from the horse on his own. He stumbles, nearly falls, catching himself against Ben's side. Hux pulls himself away in a heartbeat, pulling and readjusting the thick cloak around himself properly.

“Someone's stubbcheorn,” Ben rolls his eyes.

“Seems like it's rubbed off from you,” Hux says.

“No, no,” Ben insists. “You've been stubborn from day one.”

“Whatever,” Hux sighs, giving up. “Now, where's this food stall of yours?”

*

He knows that he tends to come back to the palace late, the sun already dipping past the horizon, chill seeping into his bones.

He knows how his parents hate this above every other small act of rebellion.

“So,” Han says, leaning ever so casually against a column within the enclosure. “Just who are you spending all your time with?” He flashes a lopsided grin, letting out a sharp bark of laughter. “Romancing someone? Is the girl at least cute?”

Ben gets off of Saber, leading her in. He takes off the saddle, rubbing her sides. “Not a girl,” Ben says.

“A guy? Someone in between?” Han offers instead. “Do I know 'em. Can't be Poe... you're not exactly his type, even if he were here.”

“And just what is Poe's type?” Ben asks, insufferably.

Han looks at him, face blank for just a moment. “Nice,” he says. “Poe likes nice guys. You're anything but nice.”

“Wow,” Ben says, dryly, crossing his arms over his chest. “That makes me feel so good about myself.”

Han leans forwards, clapping Ben's shoulder. “The truth hurts, doesn't it? So, tell me about the guy you're romancing.”

“Ew,” Ben says, scrunching up his nose. He turns away, rummaging about for a treat for Saber. He finds a carrot, holds it out for the horse to eat. “I don't _romance_.”

“Then what do you do? Should Alderaan be worrying about legions of miniature Bens running about. Sounds pretty horrifying to me.”

“He's a guy dad,” Ben says, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, well, Luke has Rey, didn't he?” Han says. He moves right on, shoving himself away from the column. “So,” he says, spreading his hands. “What's your guy like?”

“He's tall, thin, and red haired,” Ben humors him. He adjusts his cloak, pulling the hood over his head, and begins to walk, heading for the warmth of the castle.

Han follows alongside of him, not getting or not caring that Ben didn't want to have this sort of conversation.

“Red haired?” Han says. “Ain't that something rare. Did you find yourself someone from Arkanis?”

“Like I know where that is,” Ben mumbles.

“Yeah, well, if you miss all your history classes of course you're not gonna know your kingdom,” Han says, reaching out and shoving Ben to the side.

Ben glares are his father.

“A few noble families of the old Empire were famous for their red hair,” Han explains, speaking oh so casually. Like Ben should have already known. “Alderaan took over most of the Empire's cities, so technically those families are our citizens now.” He lets out a low whistle. “At least you got some good taste.”

Ben groans. “Don't be weird.” Then, quieter, “If he were... a peasant... would that make any difference?”

Han shrugs, a little smugly. “How would I know? I'm just a smuggler.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to my beta archighoul once again!! can't do it without you!
> 
> minor warning for bullying/humiliation in the segment that begins with "It's then that Lord Hux catches Armitage's eyes." until the end (*) of that part.

Ren buys two portions of some rice-based chicken meal, hot and steaming in their bowls, some fatty sauce just sitting at the very top.

Armitage shifts, pulling out his coinpurse, those three copper pennies announcing their existence. “How much was it?” he asks, hoping for something low.

Ren shakes his head. “The meal is on me.” Ren flops to the ground, boneless, crossing his legs at the ankle.

He frowns, lips thinning, and lets out a small sigh. “Very well,” says Armitage, doing the same. “But I will treat you next time.”

Ren nods, but does not look happy about it.

They eat, seated on leaves and dirt, just outside the Marketplace, sun shining sharply through what leaves that remain on the trees.

*

“You know Ari,” Barnaby says, twisting flower stems idly, creating a crown for himself. “You're gone an awful lot. If I had to guess, it'd be you that's being courted.” He sighs, something wistful.

Armitage pauses, a basket of clothes to be mended propped against his hip. “I haven't receive any gifts,” he says, speaking slowly. “I can't imagine why you've come to think that.”

Barnaby lets out another sigh, plucking a yellow flower from the vase and fiddling with its stem. He begins to play with it, bending and twisting until he gets it to stay within the flower crown.

“You smile when you come home from wherever you go,” Barnaby says.

Armitage seats himself on a stool, basket kept between his legs. He bends, picking his spool of thread, needle tucked in-between. “Wow,” he says, no inflection in my voice. “Does my smiling concern you that much?”

Barnaby shoots him an odd look. “Well,” he manages. “You do look rather scary when you smile.”

*

They walk together along the riverside, heading nowhere particular. 

Ren wears that black cloak, tightly bundled, hood obscuring the upper part of his face. He walks atop of rocks, hands out at either side, balancing himself. His bow and quiver are strapped to his back, eleven arrows ready at any second.

“Hux,” Ren says, all of a sudden. “Just why do you work as a servant?”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “I'm a Life Debt, I was born into it.”

The revelation seems to shake Ren. He stumbles, nearly falling into the river. “Life Debts are not allowed,” he says. “Not in Alderaan.” Ren scowls, something fierce, even underneath the shadow of his cloak. “Just who employs you? I've half a mind to talk to them.”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “Don't be silly,” he says, giving a soft sigh. 

He stops right there, shoes crushing leaves underfoot. “Ren,” Armitage says, “just why did you become a Knight of Ren?”

Ren's throat bobs. His face transforms, barely holding back the mixed bag of emotion. 

“See,” Armitage cuts. “Talking about work is always... unpleasant. Let's not.”

Ren shakes his head. “No, no,” he says, voice quivering. Is Ren nervous? How strange. “I... must admit, it's something of a family legacy of mine.”

“Ah,” Armitage manages.

“My grandfather was a Knight of Ren,” Ren admits. “And I've always looked up to him.” He tilts his head back, hood falling from his head, long hair spilling back. His eyes are glossy. “So I followed in his path, the only one of the family to do so.”

“I... apologize,” Armitage says, turning his head away. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

Ren shrugs. His hands fall to his side. He falls so very still. “It's fine,” he says, sounding anything but. “It's not like I'm a full member of the order.”

“You're not?”

Ren shakes his head, expression pinched. “I haven't completed the final... ceremony.”

Armitage rolls his eyes at the use of that word. “Ceremony,” he repeats. “Are you to wed your Goddess?”

“No,” Ren says, scowling. He hops down from the rocks he'd been standing on. “It's something sacred, something you shouldn't make fun of, Hux.”

He truly does take this matter seriously.

Armitage sighs softly. “I'm listening. Please, Ren, enlighten me.”

It pacifies the man. Somewhat. Ren relaxes, slumping his shoulders, if only somewhat. He sighs, running a hand over his face. “There is a particular ceremony,” Ren says, “in which a family member or loved one presents the unofficial knight with the gift of a kyber crystal, to signify that the apprentice will have support on their journey.”

“So,” Armitage says, looking away. “Do you... do you have parents?”

Ren looks at him oddly. “Y-yes,” he stammers.

“Then... do they not approve?”

“No,” Ren says, sullen now. He tugs at his hair with one overlarge hand. He scowls, something fierce. “They think me too much like my grandfather.”

“And just why is that a bad thing?” Armitage asks. He cannot even picture his mother. He cannot even guess what having a grandfather would be like.

Ren falls silent.

Even the wind dies down.

“I apologize,” Armitage says, clenching his fists, nails biting into the skin of his palms. He lowers his gaze, fixes it upon Ren's boots.

“What? No, no,” Ren says, stretching out a hand. It's warm, even through all the layers in between. “You didn't know.” He clears his throat, hand dropping from Armitage's shoulder. “My grandfather... betrayed Alderaan and joined the Empire when my mother was just a baby.”

“Oh,” Armitage manages.

“Oh,” Ren repeats. He kicks a pebble. It skitters off, particularly far. He lets out a long sigh. “I wish they'd just... trust me.”

How long had he felt this way?

Armitage frowns. He has no words for this, no experience with any of this. He thinks to Lord Hux and his sons. Of claps on shoulders, of tutors coming and going with the flow of money. 

Trust has to be earned.

But trust from family?

He doesn't know.

“You're sure quiet,” Ren says snorting. “What? Do you think me lower because of my family?”

Armitage shrugs his shoulders, a little helpless. “I'm an orphan,” he explains. “I've never known my mother. I cannot give you any advice on that matter.”

Again, Lord Hux and his children come to mind.

But the lot of them are not good examples for anything but arrogance.

Ren's face twists. “Oh Gods,” he murmurs, pale as a sheet. “I'm so sorry. I didn't know.”

Armitage shrugs. “I was a baby.”

“And what of your father?” Ren says.

He cannot hold Ren's gaze. It burns him with its intensity. 

“I was never told who he was,” Armitage says.

But he has his assumptions.

Assumptions that can never be proven either way.

“I'm sorry,” Ren says, leaning close. He tilts his body, this way and that, in some foolishly desperate way to reestablish eye contact.

“It isn't your fault,” Armitage says, rolling his eyes and allowing them to meet Ren's own. “Family,” he says, letting out a little huff.

“Family,” Ren repeats, a sense of finality to it.

*

He pulls out his hair tie, letting his hair fall. Then he pulls his hair back and high, away from his face and sticky neck. Armitage is quite tired, but not nearly done with his tasks. 

He returns to the matter at hand: the cleaning of the fireplaces, his least favorite job.

The ash and dust has already been collected from this particular fireplace, put into a bag, and now must be disposed. 

Armitage leans to his right, grabbing and dragging pieces of wood and neatly arranging them in the fireplace. Only then does he start a new fire, wrinkling his nose at the intense heat.

He is warm enough, sweat coming easily with labor.

Brendol Hux does not move from his office table, covered with papers and gems that would be sold soon enough. With him are his two sons; Barnaby drinking a hot cup of tea and Alastair looking over some documents. 

They had requested a new fire, immediately.

He looks them over, throwing them a silent curse.

It's then that Lord Hux catches Armitage's eyes. He drops the document that he had been examining. Armitage turns away, hoping to avoid scrutiny.

“Armitage, what is on your face?” Brendol asks.

“Turn this way, turn this way,” Alastair says, dissolving in a tittering laugh. “Have you not learned to keep yourself clean?”

Armitage does not look at them. He gathers up the unneeded supplies and tries to make a silent exit.

Lord Hux clucks his tongue. “You haven't been dismissed, Armitage. I thought you knew your place. Have I been mistaken? Turn around.” There is no humor in that voice.

Armitage closes his eyes, takes a small breath, and turns.

Alastair's former titter turns to full-on, disgraceful laughter. Lord Hux does not chastise him for it.

“Look how Armitage's face burns, even all that ash!” Alastair cries out, papers slipping from gentle fingers.

“He doesn't deserve a man's name if he goes around like that,” Brendol says, nodding at his fairer son.

Barnaby nods too, quick to jump and leap, all for his father's approval. “He's-- he's like a cinder witch! A dirty ari!”

“Cinder witch,” laughs Alastair. “A cinderfella.”

Armitage cannot clench his fists, though he'd like to. Not while he is carrying so many things. He lowers his gaze to the floor, the picture of a proper, obedient servant. “May I be dismissed?”

Brendol waves a hand. “Be gone,” he says. “And next time, try to keep yourself looking human.”

*

He sneaks out of the house that night, only after triple checking the state of his appearance. No ash lingers upon his cheeks. No dust lines his hair. His nails are clean. He's scrubbed underneath enough times to be sure.

He follows the familiar path, all the way to the riverbank.

A small _mrow_ greets him.

Armitage lets out a soft, pleased sound, a sound that has no business coming from him. “Millicent,” he says, relieved. “How are you?” He kneels down, stroking between her ears.

Her big eyes close slowly. She winds her way around, pressing her furry body against his leg. “I've missed you,” Armitage murmurs.

“Have you?” comes that oh so familiar voice. “Oh, Hux, I didn't know you cared so much.”

He rolls his eyes, smile quickly leaving his face.

“Hey,” Ren says, stepping quickly into Armitage's personal space. “You look upset. What's wrong?” He raises a hand, carefully tucking a strand of loose hair behind Armitage's ear.

He bats Ren's hand away, crossing his arms over his chest, making himself smaller. “It's nothing,” he says, letting out a puff of air.

Ren frowns, but steps back, obligingly. “Doesn't look like nothing,” he mutters. Then he clicks his tongue, turning on his heels and taking several long steps to return to his ever-patient horse. He withdraws some container from a travel bag. “I know what'll turn that frown upside down.”

Armitage does not expect something to be thrown at him.

Whatever it is, it is small, bouncing right off his face and into his waiting palm.

Ren nods. “Interesting way to catch that.”

“Oh, shut up,” Armitage mutters. Ren has thrown him some piece of candy, wrapped in golden paper.

“You're not allergic to anything, are you?” Ren asks.

He shakes his head.

He doesn't think so.

Armitage opens the candy, placing it upon his tongue, where it melts. His eyes flutter open, even as he lets out a surprised and delighted hum. “What is it?” Armitage asks, that strange, sweet sensation clinging to his tongue.

“Chocolate,” Ren says. “Here, have another.”

Armitage accepts it easily, allowing the rare sweet to be devoured in one bite.

*

He hears the ringing bell even from the kitchen. Armitage shuts the faucet, drying his hands. The dirty dinner dishes can be attended to later—right after he attends to Lord Hux's needs.

“You rang, sir?” Armitage says, only after knocking on the door.

Brendol sits there, collar loosened, a tell-tale bottle of ale standing on his desk. The skin of his face is reddened. “Tea,” he says. “Nothing too strong.”

Armitage nods. “Very well,” he says, already thinking of what to make.

It's easy enough to not think, to pour water into the kettle and to clamber up a stool to rifle through the cabinets for an unchipped cup and matching saucer. He places it down on the countertop—gently.

Armitage makes tea, pouring hot water over the herbal blend, the sharp smell of citrus rolling into the air. Brendol Hux enjoys his tea with just a little bit of honey. Armitage stirs with a teaspoon, just for a moment, and sets it aside.

The cup in hand, Armitage makes his way to Lord Hux's study. He knocks with his free hand, door opening slightly with each rap.

“Sir?” he calls through the door. 

“You may come in,” Lord Hux says, not moving from his seat behind the overlarge desk. A second bottle of ale has joined the first. Lord Hux is suitably tipsy.

Armitage lowers his gaze to the floor, to his closed-toe shoes on hardwood floor. “Lemon ginger tea with just a bit of honey,” he says. “Just like you like it, sir.”

Slowly, he steps up to the desk, finding a safe spot to place the cup and saucer.

Brendol takes one look at it, picking it up and taking a sip without a second thought. He places it back down, cup clinking against the saucer, letting out a pleased sigh.

Stacks of papers are strewn about the desk, seemingly no order to them. The writing is neat, uniform. Armitage cannot read a word.

A small pouch of some red, velvety material is open, placed directly on top of a pile of paper, its contents spilling out. 

Gems—all red and jagged looking—are stuffed into the little thing.

Kyber crystals, taken from Jedha. And unsellable for their flaws.

“You're staring, Armitage,” Brendol says, one brow raised. He does not look so severe, not with the warm across his face, the unshaved beard, and the dilated pupils.

He adverts his gaze. “That one's cracked, sir.”

Lord Hux must notice too. He lets out a short huff of air. “Of course it is,” Lord Hux says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Those are the damaged crystals. Who would want to buy something so broken?”

His heart leaps to his throat.

It's foolish.

But...

He would.

“How much would you be looking for for the cracked one?” Armitage asks, throat going dry. “Sir,” he adds on, only after.

Brendol Hux looks at him oddly, lips pursed. In his drunken state, he does not stop to think, does not think about just why a servant would want such a thing. “It'd be three copper pennies.”

Armitage nods, stiff, whole body going oh so rigid. “May I purchase it from you then, sir?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cinderfella comment/insult was based on this addition to my moodboard for this fic:
> 
> https://penpenhooray.tumblr.com/post/158591273586/jathis-gaygalaxyguy-if-the-slipper-fits-a


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops, forgot to add a note before I posted. No warnings for this chapter.
> 
> Huge shout out to archighoul again for beta-ing!
> 
> ee-void made a moodboard for the fic!
> 
> http://ee-void.tumblr.com/post/159186138640/ee-void-quick-moodboard-for-gaygalaxyguys-fic

 

Winter.

Snow sits heavily upon tree branches. The Woods are eerily silent. 

Ben wishes he had his bow and arrows and borrowed horse. Instead he sits with nobility, hair tied back from his face, making his ears stick out far too much. He leans his cheek against a fist, letting out a quiet snort, when as Leia chats amicably with some noblewoman.

Han knocks the hand right from under him, Ben nearly hitting his chin against the table.

“Hey,” he practically growls.

“Like an animal,” Han sighs. “Behave yourself. Just until the meal is served.”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no need to be nice to me or anything,” he mutters.

He sighs, putting his elbow back onto the table, looking at his father, as if challenging the older man. Ben leans his cheek against it once again, waiting for those hunters, those Knights of Ren to walk through those doors, dragging the carcass of a deer in.

He thinks of Hux instead, wondering just what that man is up to.

Would he be at that gathering of servants? Would he be dressed, once again, as an Imperial General, a year after the first Hunt they’d shared?

Would he dance with someone else?

He lets out a little sigh, this one a little more lovelorn.

*

He doesn't have the time to slip off and rejoin the ranks of the Rens and no time to help them in any of their activities with the peasants.

It seems unfair, for the richer, luckier-at-birth people of Alderaan to have the luxury of visiting the Winter Castle—a large, stone structure built in the Woods, filled with lights and laughter during the measly three days of use it sees each year.

Such a waste, too, for rich, fatty foods to be wasted the way they are after the meal.

Whatever is not eaten from the freshly caught veal is tossed away, going against the personal code of the Knights of Ren.

“Prince Ben,” some son of nobility says, smiling sweetly, golden hair swept up into an elaborate braid. “Would you care for a dance?”

Ben brushes past him, shaking his head. “Sorry,” he lets out, not sounding the least bit sincere. “I have a headache.”

The music swells, something normally pleasant, the violins louder than anything else. The high pitched strings do nothing to please him. Instead, the noise drives pain behind his eyes.

*

It's very much a relief when they return to the capital. He can hardly sit still within the carriage, shaking his legs even as the carriage jostles him and his parents.

“Someone's got ants in his pants,” Han mutters, stretching out his legs, settling them on the seat across him, the empty seat beside Ben. The seat Leia is not shy about wanting filled.

“Honestly,” she groans, “how did I end up with two scoundrels.”

“We multiply, baby,” Han says, sending her both a wink and a lopsided smile.

“Ew,” Ben says, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back further in his spot, trying and failing to add distance between him and his parents. “Can you two like, just wait until we get back to the castle?”

Leia smiles at Ben, one of her hands placed on Han's chest. “You'll get this way too, when you find love.”

Han shoots him such a cocky, knowing look.

Ben glares.

*

He has never been so happy to see the palace gates, the bustling servants, the perfectly groomed garden. He practically springs his way to the stables.

“Saber!” he calls out. 

The horse answers his call, tossing her head. She nickers and neighs. Ben can’t help but give her a treat, a sugar cube for her loyalty.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Phasma says. She leans against the wall, right beside the door. How he hadn’t noticed her, he wouldn’t even guess. She’s all too obvious, wearing silver riding clothes along with a white furred cloak.

“Phasma,” Ben says, much less excitedly than he had for the horse.

Phasma hears it in his voice. She raises one brow, shaking her head. “More excited to see my horse than me? How sad for me, my Prince.”

“Missed you too,” he says, rolling his eyes. Slowly, he reaches for Saber’s saddle.

“Oh, clearly not enough,” Phasma mocks. “Off to see your mystery man? If he even exists?”

“Oh shut up,” Ben says, rolling his eyes. “Just because he wasn’t there the last time, doesn’t mean I’m making him up.”

A grin splits Phasma’s face. “Of course,” she croons, utterly and horribly sarcastic.

Ben sighs. “You’re awful.”

“And yet you love me,” Phasma says, punching his shoulder. Hard. Ben rubs his arm, taking a small step away from the terribly strong woman. “So, off to see your man? This very moment? Someone’s impatient.”

“If he’s there, of course,” Ben says.

“I’ll join you,” Phasma says, taking the saddle out of Ben’s hands and getting Saber ready for a ride. She doesn’t even ask to tag along. She knows that Ben would not say no to her.

Ben scowls, just a little, as he takes a different saddle and brings it to a different horse. The massive, grey furred beast tosses his head.

“It’s alright, Falcon,” Ben murmurs, stroking the horse’s sides. Falcon is his father’s horse, old and cranky, just like the owner. “Just gonna borrow you for a little bit.”

The horse snorts.

Ben snorts right back at it. “You need the exercise anyway,” he mutters. “He’s been letting you get fat…”

“You and your father are the same,” Phasma says, getting onto her horse’s back. “You both give far too many treats to your horse but condemn others for the same behavior.”

Ben shoots her a look.

It does not phase her at all.

*

He leads her to that riverbank. The Woods around them are so very silent—the noiseless haze broken only by the soft crunches of hooves against snow. Freshly falling snow clings to the black cape Ben has wrapped about himself. His hair is down, dampened by snow that had melted too close to his warmth.

The river is partially frozen.

Saber is just a little put off by this.

Ben placates her with yet another sugar cube. Then Falcon gets jealous, sniffing about Ben, looking for more hidden sugar cubes. He sighs, pulling out one and feeding it to the horse.

“Oh,” Phasma says, snow pooled about her ankles. “So that’s where your cloak went.”

Ben turns, a smile gracing his features.

Hux stands, partially obscured by the trunk of a tree. Around his shoulders is Ben’s thick, fuzzy cloak. He’s pulled the hood upwards, to warm his ears. His face is terribly pink and splotchy.

“Hux,” Ben greets, stepping forwards. “Happy Hunt.”

“Happy Hunt,” Hux repeats, watching Phasma warily. “Who is she?” he asks, something strange about his whole expression, something strange about how he speaks.

“I’m Phasma,” she says, stepping forwards. Within a few short steps, she reaches him, extending a hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, Hux. Heard a few nice things about you.”

Hux shakes her hand even more hesitantly than he had spoken. “Right,” he says. “I haven’t heard of you. Are you… Ren’s betrothed?” 

The silence is deafening.

Phasma breaks it with a hearty laugh. She wipes away a tear with one gloved hand. “Oh,” he manages, still giggling, “Oh, that’s rich.”

Hux bristles at that, lips forming such an angry sneer. He could be a frightening fellow, if he truly tried. “And why is that so laughable a question?” Hux says, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

“It’s so laughable because I truly prefer the company of women to men,” Phasma says. “What made you even think that—“

“Phasma,” Ben whines. “Enough. We’re all here as friends.”

It does not seem to placate Hux, who has unclenched his fists, but grips the cloak tightly instead. “I should go,” he says weakly, already turning.

“Wait, wait,” Ben says. “Hold on now.” He joins Phasma and Hux, between the trees, protected from falling snow. “Hold out your hand,” he instructs.

Hux shoots Ben a curious look, then Phasma.

Phasma shrugs, a little helpless, but her smile just won’t leave her face.

“Just do it,” Ben says, eyes sparkling brightly with his excitement.

Hux does so, huffing impatiently. He does not wear gloves, Ben knows. And when he does, they tend to be an old, worn out pair that doesn’t look very warm. The tips of Hux’s fingers are reddened from cold, nails very nearly purple. Carefully, Ben eases a cloth bag out from its hiding place behind his back. He places it in Hux’s waiting hand.

“Open it,” Ben encourages, just knowing he’ll love it.

Hux looks at him like no one else does—lips pursed, eyes showing so much annoyance. It’s thrilling.

Carefully, he opens the bag. 

“Oh,” Hux murmurs, pulling out a pair of fine leather gloves. His cheeks color as he pulls each one on. “Thank you,” he says, suddenly finding his feet more interesting.

“There’s something else in there,” Ben says.

Hux’s eyes widen, what little grey light the sun can provide in wintertime making their green all the more bright. “Oh, no,” he says, “the gloves are very fine… You’ve given me enough.”

Ben shakes his head. “I insist.”

Hux frowns at him, muttering, “You are far too generous.” He pulls out a delicately wrapped candy, sighing lightly. 

Phasma laughs, just as well. “He could be more generous, oh trust me,” she says. “He once gave me a sword, hilt colored chrome to match my armor.”

“Chrome armor?” Hux blanches, brows furrowing with that. He looks positively sick to his stomach. “You’re the Queen’s—?” he cuts himself off, shaking his head and lowering his gaze. “I must apologize, my Lady. I hadn’t known who I was talking too. Please forgive my disrespectful speech.”

Phasma opens her mouth and shuts it. “Believe me when I say you’ve nothing to apologize for.”

Hux does not look as if he is even considering believing her. He stands there stiffly, posture perfect, head avoiding their gazes.

It makes Ben’s stomach drop, into some bottomless pit, as the Hux he knows disappears, replaced by any other peasant. Subservient and afraid. 

“Excuse me, Ren,” Hux says, not even looking him in the eye. He is so stiff, so formal, so very unlike himself. “I… have something for you as well.”

“Oh,” is all Ben can let out.

Hux looks up, a spark of that familiar fierceness in his eyes. “You have to promise not to open it until you are safely home.”

Ben smiles, a fluttering thing. “Alright,” he says, voice light.

Hux holds out one gloved hand, all fingers fisted but the pinkie. “Swear it,” he says.

Ben wraps his pinkie around Hux’s own. “I swear,” he says, shaking once.

Hux nods, satisfied with this childish sort of promise. He lets go first, pulling the cloak away from his body and pulling a cloth pouch out of some pocket. It is significantly smaller than what Ben had given him.

Slowly, Hux places it in Ben’s waiting hand.

“What’s in it?” Ben asks. His friend—his dear friend—has given him something, and it means everything to him.

Hux scowls at him, something fierce. Then his eyes flicker back to the tall form of Phasma. It’s painful, seeing Hux become docile. “You’ll… find out when you go back home. That’s your end of the promise. Don’t break it.”

Ben smiles, reaching out and touching Hux’s narrow shoulder. “I don’t break promises.”

Hux is satisfied only then. He turns, and walks away, back from wherever he came.

*

Only in the solitude of his room does Ben dare to open Hux’s gift.

He slides whatever it is out, letting it land onto his palm.

Then he gasps, something small and nearly pained.

A kyber crystal, red and fractured, sits nestled there. Hux had given him a kyber crystal. 

Ben closes his hand around it, holding it close.

He wishes he could hold Hux in the same way.

But would that stiff, subservient servant that came to life when Hux learned of Phasma’s identity return once Ben told him who he really is?

  
  



	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again !! thank you to my beta, archighoul, once again! she has caught so very many of my cold medicine addled mistakes ; 0 ; ; 0 ; ; 0 ; writing this fanfiction makes me a little happier. hope you all enjoy.
> 
> no warnings for this chapter.

Spring is sweet. With its arrival, comes bouquets of flowers—for Barnaby, from Barnaby, for Alastair, from Alastair. A mess to organize the deliveries and more a mess to clean up after.

Petals and pollen fall from the bouquets, a mess that does not improve with Armitage’s nearly constant sneezing.

Again, he sneezes, petals fluttering out of the dustpan. He hisses, rubs at his nose with the back of his arm. “Dreadful,” he mutters to himself. Those colorful petals truly are dreadful.

“Ari, have you said something?” Barnaby says. He does not wait for an answer, standing at the opening of the hall, hands on his hips, hair in curlers. “No matter, I need you to go to the Market for me.”

“What for?” Armitage asks, continuing his work, sweeping the many fallen petals. Soon, he suspects, he’ll have to toss the many colorful gifts that seem to line every surface in the house.

“Alastair and I have placed our orders for some outfits. They should be ready today,” he says, tapping a finger against his bottom lip. 

“Whatever for?” Armitage mutters again, wiping at his brow.

“For the upcoming Carnival, of course,” Barnaby scoffs. “We’ve got invitations—like all young eligible people in Alderaan.”

He supposes that a servant like himself does not quite qualify as ‘young’ or ‘eligible’ or a ‘person.’

“Very well,” Armitage says. He stands, dumping the dustpan full of flower petals into the garbage. He supposes he should wash the floor, to truly rid the house of such awful pollen.

“I’ll go to the Market at noon. Who exactly did you order from?”

*

“Oh, Armitage,” Alis says, nearly dropping a basket of eggs. Her face splits in a smile, eyes so very warm. “How nice to see you again.” She wraps her one free arm around him, placing a kiss on his cheek.

“Hello Alis,” Armitage says, just feeling how his face goes red. “Here on business, I’m afraid.”

“Always dutiful, Armie. What a trooper.” Alis shakes her head. “Will you allow me to accompany you?”

“If your Master would be alright with—“

She waves one dismissive hand. “Sloane won’t notice me gone,” Alis promises. “Not with the Spring Carnival so close.” Her cheeks are rosy with excitement, like she's young again.

Armitage shakes his head. “You’re excited for that thing?”

“But of course,” Alis says. “Alderaan hasn’t had a Spring Carnival in so very long. The flowers, the lights, the pretty gowns. It’s all so exciting.”

Armitage tries very hard not to roll his eyes. He fails this anyway. “Alis,” he says, shaking his head, “the only ones who can truly enjoy the Carnival are the nobility.”

She frowns at him, looking so very sour. “I see you’ve only become more cynical,” Alis says, wagging her finger, as if he is a child once again and she is scolding him.

“You cannot blame me for that,” he says, holding open the door to Signore Citripio’s Clothing Emporium. Alis walks in before him. “It’s all… so excessive.

What also is excessive is anything within Citripio’s shop. All the gowns and suits and hats and other accessories are overly flourished—ribbons and frills littering nearly every square inch of fabric.

“Hello there,” Citripio says, a bright smile upon his face. He stands behind a counter, a pencil in hand, paper on the flat surface, and glasses slipping down his face. The man wears a golden suit, quite possibly the least ostentatious thing in the building.

“Hello Signore Citripio,” Armitage says, fighting back the natural curl of his lip when viewing a yellow as atrocious as the one Citripio favors. “I’m here to pick up an order for Lord Hux’s sons.”

Citripio nods, delighted at that. “They will not be disappointed, I swear,” he says, bending, rather stiffly, and retrieves a powder blue box. It’s of a rather significant size. His eyes widen at the sight.

“My…” Alis trails off. “Just what did those boys order?”

Citripio is all too glad to inform her. “The boys have ordered some absolutely beautiful suits and matching capes for the upcoming Carnival. Lord Alastair Hux has ordered one in blush while Lord Barnaby Hux has ordered a matching set in baby blue,” he says, all too excited for his own work. “There were additional embroidered designs added to the hems.”

More and more blather comes from his mouth. He chatters on and on, it progressively meaning less to Armitage.

“Alright,” he says, trying not to yell at him and shut him up. “That’s quite… enough.”

Alis, silent at his side, seems to agree.

*

The Carnival is certainly something.

Barnaby and Alastair dress, excited and chattering, pressing some glittery substance to their high cheeks. Armitage arranges their hair, spending a painstaking amount of time curling Alastair’s hair until they stay that way.

Even Lord Hux joins in on the festivities, a purple flower tucked into his lapel, lips just barely quirked up.

“Armitage, I trust you’ll care for the house in our absence,” Lord Hux says, barely looking at him.

Armitage nods. “Yes sir,” he says, hands folded in front of him, eyes lowered to the ground.

Lord Hux nods, satisfied. “Very well,” he says, in that low, gruff voice of his. “Be awake at midnight. Expect our return then.”

He finds himself nodding again. “Yes, of course.”

The door closes in his face. Only then does he relax, letting out a soft sigh. He comes to his senses, locking the door.

“Armitage,” says Mitaka, so suddenly beside him. Just when had the other man gotten there? It doesn’t matter. “Do you want to go to the Carnival?”

“Mitaka,” he says, taking in a sharp breath of air. “Just what are you suggesting?”

The other man smiles, more than a little conspiratorially. “I suggest that you go to the Carnival,” Mitaka says, waving a hand in a half circle. “Come now, I’ll help you get ready.”

Armitage shakes his head, getting rid of the fog that surrounds him. “Mitaka, don’t be ridiculous,” he protests. “I didn’t receive an invitation.”

But Mitaka is persistent, a knowing smile growing on his face. “I think it’d be fun if you go,” he says, placing a soft hand in the crook of Armitage’s elbow. “Ren will be there. Here, look,” he says, pulling an invitation seemingly out of nowhere. “You’ve been invited.”

Armitage of No Name.

He falls silent.

“Just how do you know Ren?” Armitage murmurs.

Mitaka’s eyes slide shut, even as he smiles. He says something, but Armitage does not hear it.

He blinks, finding himself in his own room. He sits upon the mattress, on the floor beside the empty fireplace. Mitaka ruffles through Armitage’s closet, pulling out the old General’s uniform.

“What do you think?” the man says, holding the jacket against his chest, offering a small smile. “Will you wear it again?”

Armitage wrinkles his nose. “That thing?” he asks. “I’ve… worn it before.” To the Great Hunt. He shakes his head. “And besides,” Armitage tries, “the Carnival is not a masquerade.”

Mikata’s lips quirk. “Oh, yes,” he says, deflating slightly. “Another time then.” He tucks it back into the closet and withdraws something else.

Armitage is sure—in that clear, painstaking moment—that he’s never seen that coat before. It’s black too, like the Imperial-owned coat before it, but this one is much more intricate. Designs cover the upper back, leading up to the collar. A belt hangs around its middle, to cinch in one’s waist.

His mouth runs dry.

“Where did you find that?” he whispers, standing, finding his legs suddenly weak.

Mitaka smiles again. “Here,” he says, gesturing. “Let’s put it on you.”

Armitage shakes his head. He feels the blood drain out of him. “Mitaka,” he whispers softly, “have you stolen from the Master?” What sort of repercussions would follow?

“What?” Mitaka says, smile falling from his face entirely. “No, no…” He pauses, red coming up to his cheeks. “Just… consider it a gift.”

“Don’t worry—“ Mitaka says, waving a hand again. “Here, try on the coat.”

Armitage frowns, finding himself putting the coat on. It’s warm, luxuriously warm. His frown does not leave his face. “If I run into Lord Hux, he’ll recognize me in a heartbeat.”

Mitaka places a hat upon Armitage’s head. “There you go,” he says, winking. “I assure you, the only people who will recognize you will be the people you want to be recognized by.”

He doesn’t know why or how, but he trusts Mitaka’s words.

There is something strange about that odd little man.

He can’t say what exactly.

*

Capital City is decked out in all the best splendor. Decorations hang in the air, connecting buildings with lit colorful lanterns. He cranes his neck to look at them, keeping a careful hand atop his hat.

Someone pushes past him, shoulders bumping.

It doesn’t bother him so much, not with all the decorations in the air. 

“Beautiful,” he murmurs to himself. Only then does he look away, suddenly embarrassed by his own gawking. Armitage pulls the cap low over his head, obscuring his eyes. He’s wasted enough time.

Finding Ren, in such a large place when he had no indication if the other man would even put an effort in showing up to the Carnival—

He doesn’t know how Mitaka had talked him into it. Mousy Mitaka and his magic words. Armitage rolls his eyes.

Stalls and booths are set up along either side of the road. Sweets and colorful costumes are for sale. Spun sugar flies free of the machine, fluttering off, carried by the soft breeze.

Armitage would recognize that cloaked form anywhere, even surrounded by the noisy, ever milling crowd.

Ren stands in front of the spun cotton seller’s stall, murmuring, dipping his head, seeming to try to shrink underneath his hood. Armitage would recognize that broad frame anywhere, the way he makes himself smaller when he stands, as if to apologize for his size.

Ren spins away from the cotton seller, holding a cone of the fluffy sweet in one gloved hand. His eyes meet Armitage’s own, even through the crowd, widening to match the growing grin upon his face.

They twist and weave through streams of people, meeting in the center.

“Hux,” Ren greets. “Nice hat.”

Armitage touches its brim. “Thank you,” he says, all too aware of how his ears burn. “New cloak?”

Ren holds out one edge of the black cloak, showing off its fur lined interior. “A gift,” he says dryly. “From my mother.”

“A little much for this weather, don’t you think?” Armitage asks.

He shrugs, rolling his shoulders. “She thinks I’ll catch a cold,” Ren says, rolling his eyes. “I think she still believes me to be a child.”

Armitage laughs, hand rising unbiddenly to cover his mouth. “Has your mother  _ seen _ you?”

He smirks too. “I don’t think she realizes how big I’ve gotten,” Ren says, letting out a small chuckle. “I’ve towered over her since I was twelve.”

“My,” says Armitage, shaking his head. “What a feat.”

Ren holds out the cone. “Want some?” he says.

Armitage reaches out, tearing a small piece from the cloud of sugar. He places it, hesitantly, on his tongue. It melts, and all he can taste is the absurd sweetness of the candy.

“Hey, follow me,” Ren says, offering his hand. 

Armitage takes it, their fingers intertwining. Ren leads the way, winding them through crowds, joined hands preventing them from getting separated. “Just where are you spiriting me away to?” Armitage asks.

Ren throws him a wink over his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll see.”

He shakes his head. “If you end up slaughtering me in some dingy alleyway, I suppose it’ll at least get me out of some chores.”

Ren leads him through a narrow passageway, and then—

There is a fountain at the very center of a circular plaza. Chairs and tables are arranged around it, but no one is there to enjoy it. Candles, floating on little orange disks, sit unlit but beautiful.

“Wait here,” Ren instructs, pulling Armitage’s hands to cover his eyes. “Don’t peek.”

Ren walks around, feet heavy against the ground. Finally, all goes silent, except for the distant sounds of the carnival itself.

“You can look now,” Ren says, sounding bashful.

He drops his hands from his eyes, taking in the sight of glowing candles floating on the water. “Wow,” Armitage can’t help but breathe. He turns on his heels, giving Ren a fond look. “Well, certainly does not look like I’ll be murdered tonight.”

Ren laughs. “You little shit,” he says, sounding absolutely delighted at Armitage’s reaction. He still holds that cone, though he’s taken care of most of the candy. “Here,” he says, offering Armitage the last bit.

He tears it off the paper cone with a hand, popping it into his mouth.

“Just how is this place so empty?” he asks. “Just what have you done, Ren?”

Ren shrugs, a very smug grin settling on his face. “When I was a kid, I’d run off here to be alone. Not a lot of people pass by. Let’s sit,” he says, taking Armitage’s hand once more and guiding the other man to the fountain’s edge.

“So,” Ren says, shifting. “What brings you to the Carnival?” He has not let go of Armitage’s hand; he goes so far as to stroke a thumb over the back of it.

“The same thing as anyone else here,” Armitage says, rolling his eyes. 

“Funny,” Ren says, leaning closer. “You don’t seem like the dancing type.”

He huffs. “Truthfully, a fellow servant practically kicked me out to go and have fun.”

“That sounds nice of them,” Ren says.

“Like you’re the best person to judge another’s character,” Armitage says.

“Hux,” Ren says, voice cracking, eyes so very glossy in the lanterns’ low glow. “I’d very much like to kiss you.”

He wets his lips, startled. He can feel his heart skip a beat. Armitage pulls his hands away from Ren’s and stands, walking away, shaking his head.

“Hux,” Ren calls, standing, mouth dropping. “I… apologize. I simply thought you felt the same.”

“You’re not joking are you?” Armitage asks, pausing. He presses a hand to a brick wall, feeling the sharpness to them. His palm will bleed, he knows. He doesn’t particularly care.

“What would I joke about?”

Armitage turns around, arms crossed over his chest, a particularly sour expression on his face. “About having… feelings. For me.”

Ren shakes his head, eyes so very wide and doeish. “I’d never joke about that.” He stands too, hands at his side, looking so terribly… vulnerable.

He drops his arms, looking down. “You’re… a Knight of Ren. Or at least you’re going to be one. You have a wide pool of romantic partners that would surely fit your position better.”

“Is that what you’re worrying about? Seriously?” Ren opens his arms. “Hux,” he croons. “Come here…”

“Of course I worry,” he snaps, hating how his face warms at Ren’s…. Ren’s ridiculousness. “I won’t make you look bad…”

“You won’t,” Ren promises him. “Knights of Ren are allowed to take on lovers of any social standing. They exist outside of social rankings.” And since Armitage does not listen and come to him, he comes to Armitage. Slowly, Ren wraps his arms around Armitage’s shoulders, just holding him softly, loose enough that Armitage could easily pull away.

“You’re ridiculous,” Armitage mutters, refusing to acknowledge how his eyes fill with tears. He blinks, and blinks again. “Others would be better for you.”

“You can call me that all you like. Won’t change the fact you  _ like _ me,” Ren sings, right in Armitage’s ear. “And besides… I already think you’ve made me a better man.”

Armitage relaxes, even in Ren’s silly little excuse for a hug, huffing a soft puff of air. The only sound around them is the rustling streams of water, falling into the fountain. 

“So,” Armitage says, pressing his cheek to Ren’s own, “is the offer of a kiss still valid?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! sorry for the delays. I think I'll be able to return to the previous schedule of a weekly update. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> No warnings for this chapter!

 

Fall.

Leaves fall in the Woods, littering the floor between the trees.

Ben presses a kiss behind Hux’s ear, and then another. 

Hux squirms, pulling away from those kisses. “What are you doing?” he manages, just short of laughter.

“Nothing,” Ben says, his face split in a smile, happy with kisses that come so easily and so freely. He steps away from Hux, climbing over some boulder, and hops down from it.

Hux rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the smile on his face.

“So,” Ben says, trying to be casual and failing.

“So?” Hux repeats, suspicious, and for good reason.

“Soon it’ll be winter,” Ben says, “and with it comes the Prince’s Ball.”

Hux laughs. “You’ll be going, I suppose,” he says. “Careful not to step on any poor person’s feet.”  
“I’d never. Besides, I only wish to dance with you,” Ben says.

“You must think yourself quite the charmer,” Hux says, rolling his eyes, ducking his face away from Ben’s gaze.

Ben gets in front of Hux, clasping Hux’s hands in his own. He swings them to and fro, ducking close and placing a kiss on Hux’s lips. “Would you go to the Ball?” Ben asks.

Hux frowns. “You know I’m a peasant,” he says carefully.

“It doesn’t matter,” insists Ben. He squeezes Hux’s hands tightly, wishing it to be some kind of a comfort. “If… I could secure a way for you to get to the Ball, would you come?”

Hux presses his lips together, forming some fine line. He worries, though he’d never tell Ben that. Instead he says, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have anything to wear.” He says it shamefully, lowly, again avoiding eye contact as his cheeks turn scarlet.

Ben feels hatred for whoever employs him.

Whatever they pay Hux, it’s not enough. 

He leans forwards, pressing yet another kiss to Hux’s lips. “And what if I were to buy an outfit for you?” he says.

Hux meets his eyes fierce and angry. He pulls his hands from Ben, crossing them over his thin chest. “No,” Hux says, firm and forced. “Kylo, you know how I feel about… handouts. I need to earn the money for my clothing.”

“It— wouldn’t be a handout,” Ben says. He hadn’t taken Hux’s pride into account. Little gifts, like sweets and fruits and pastries, Hux would take. Anything bigger, Hux refused vehemently. “It’d be a gift. Tell me, when’s your birthday? Consider it your birthday gift. Or an early gift for the Hunt.”

Hux sighs. “Kylo, please,” he says. “That’s too much.”

Ben crowds him, taking one of Hux’s hands and kissing the back of it. “You could consider it a courting gift,” he says slyly.

Hux only flushes a brighter red, trying hard not to smile. He steps forwards, pushing into Ben’s space, and kisses him. Ben places a hand on the back of Hux’s neck, deepening the kiss. Hux pulls away, taking a deep breath. “You’re ridiculous,” he says softly.

“You love it,” Ben says. He drops Hux’s hands and walks on, in the Woods, back to where they had left Saber. “Just… think about it, okay? I wouldn’t mind buying you something pretty.”

Hux huffs, but kisses him one last time, chaste and sweet against Ben’s lips, before he’s off to who knows where. “See you,” he says.

“See you,” Ben says right back, watching him go.

*

There is something different about the very air back at the castle.

Ben returns Saber to her stables, taking off the saddle and hanging it.

“Ben,” Phasma says, throwing open the door to the stable. “There you are.” Her hair is wild with wind, eyes wide open.

“Has something happened?” Ben asks. “Are you alright?”

Phasma runs a hurried hand through her hair, only musing it more. “Everything’s just peachy,” she says, tugging on his arm. “Come on. There’s someone you need to see.”

Ben rolls his eyes but goes with Phasma, not expecting much.

Phasma drags him into the castle, into one of the so called ‘conference’ rooms his mother usually fitted with uncomfortable chairs and stuffy advisors. Except there are no advisors here. And no one seems fond of using a chair.

His family crowds about—Leia, Han, Luke, and even Chewbacca, who is technically more of a family friend than blood family.

Ben cranes his neck, trying to see who they crowd about.

Leia turns her head and catches Ben’s gaze. Her face is youthful and joyful, stress melting off her shoulders. “There you are,” she says. “We’ve been looking for you.” She turns away just as easily, looking back on the crowd.

Poe, smiling Poe, a little roughed up but none the worse for wear. He leaves the mess of people, clapping Ben on the shoulders, laughing. “Ben,” he says, delighted, “you were right.”

“I was right?” he repeats dumbly.

The crowd parts and he sees just what he’s wrong about.

Rey.

He’s only ever seen her when she was barely out of infancy. But the round cheeks are there, and the warm eyes, and short, hastily cut hair, uneven and jagged. She’s dressed in strange beige clothing, clothing more suited to a hotter environment and a tougher life.

Beside her is a man Ben has never seen. Wearing Poe’s jacket. And holding one of Rey’s hands. He stares at Ben with wide, nervous eyes, clenching Rey’s hand tighter.

Luke stands beside Rey, holding her other hand tightly. His cheeks are red like his glossy eyes.

“The lost princess’s return,” Han says, smoothing a hand over his hair. “Wonder how the citizens are gonna react to that.” 

*

There’s really no need to worry.

Rey is kind and brave and fierce and eager to learn all that she can, excited to be a part of something. 

She and Poe and Finn, the man they’d found and befriended, the reason they even made it back to Alderaan, make quite the trio.

Phasma trains with Rey, both wielding staffs.

Rey is sure and quick with the weapon. Ben watches their back and forth, leaning against a wall, sweat cooling on his skin from his earlier bout with Phasma.

Rey gets in a few good hits, right against Phasma’s stomach, knocking the breath out of the woman and sweeping her to the ground.

Phasma sits there, a little stunned, Rey’s staff held under her chin. Then Rey’s serious, drawn face relaxes, pulling into a sweet smile. “Looks like I win that round, Captain,” she says, offering a hand.

Phasma takes it, letting Rey pull her up. She laugh too. “Impressive,” Phasma admits, turning to Ben.

Ben recognizes that look in her eyes and doesn't like it.

“Would you care for a bought with the princess?” Phasma asks sweetly. Overly sweet, turning saccharine.

Ben leans away from the wall, pulling his training saber from its sheath. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.  
Rey prepares herself, holding the staff diagonally, across her body. She watches him, ever attentive.

Ben strikes first.

*

The tailor is a relentless man. 

Citripio takes measurements and talks the whole time. Artoo, his husband serving as assistant, occasionally puts in his own sarcastic remarks, making things slightly more bearable. Slightly.

Leia is there too, sitting comfortably as Citripio pokes and prods him, this way and that.

She too makes idle chatter with the tailor and his husband, both friends from her younger days.

Ben sighs audibly.

“What fabric would you like your clothing to be made from, Prince Ben?” asks Citripio.

“Does it really matter?” he says, bored out of his skull.

Citripio tuts, an indigent sound. “Of course it matters. Why, I—“

“Citripio,” Leia says. “Don’t you like having creative freedom? Think of this as the ultimate sort of freedom.”

That entices the man, gets him to smile widely and get on to a different, more relaxed chatter.

“You’ll be needing three outfits,” Citripio says. “One for each night.” He turns his head to Leia. “Will the nights have any themes to them?” He practically with his excitement, prodding Ben once more.

Leia shakes her head. “No,” she says. “Those invited will be allowed to wear what they please.”

“Mom,” Ben says, perhaps sounding a little weaker than he would have liked. He clears his throat. “I was thinking… To celebrate Rey’s return, why don’t we open the Ball to people of any class?”

“A splendid idea, Prince Ben,” Citripio says, clapping his hands.

Artoo rolls his eyes and falls into a seat. “Great idea, until you see the catering bill for so many mouths.”

Leia too does not seem entirely in love with it. She purses her lips together. “Perhaps, something a little smaller,” she says. “All people of any class of marriageable age?”

Ben nods, a little too quickly, a little too eagerly, smiling brightly. “Yes,” he says. “That sounds— perfect.” He can already think of the dancing. He’s practiced with tutors, so maybe he and Hux won’t step on one another’s toes so much.

She nods.

Poe barges into the room, throwing the door open. He looks nervously from Leia to the pinned Ben back to Leia again. “Your Highness,” he says. “You’re needed.”

Leia stands, sending a regretful look Ben’s way. “We’ll talk later,” she says.

He nods.

Poe closes the door after Leia’s swift entrance, it shutting with a bang.

“Citripio,” Ben says.

“Yes, my Prince?”

“If I were to supply you with additional measurements, would you care to make an additional costume?” Ben asks. “I’d pay you of course. Just keep it… discreet.”

Citripio simpers. “Does Prince Ben have a secret lover then?” he asks.

Artoo laughs too. “Look how red the boy gets,” he snorts. “Where are you hiding this lover of yours?”

Ben rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to procure a service not get bullied.”

“I’ll do it,” Citripio says cheerfully. “You know where my shop is?” he asks, not giving Ben time to answer. “Artoo, write the address for the Prince. Ben, what would the mystery client like to wear? What kind of dress? What sort of cut? Or, ooh,” he breathes, sounding as eager as ever, “would a two-piece set suit them better?”

Ben feels more than a little overwhelmed.

He’s only ever seen Hux in three different outfits—all black and uniform-like.

“Maybe something white or green,” he says, thinking of Hux’s long red hair and of his eyes, the eyes whose color is so hard to place.

“Delightful,” Citripio says. He means it.

*

Soon the weather turns cold.

Hux wears his fur cloak around his shoulders, but he still manages to look cold, his cheeks and nose pink with the chill.

“Hey,” Ben says, smiling from on top of his horse. He extends a hand, helping Hux up and onto the horse, settled right behind Ben.

Hux wraps his arms around Ben’s torso and settles his cheek against his back. The horse moves slowly, carefully, as the sun sets.

“How was your day?” asks Hux.

“It was okay,” Ben says softly. Soon it’ll be winter. Soon the first day of the Ball will come. His heart pounds in his chest. “I got you something.”

Hux tuts. “You shouldn’t have,” he says quietly.

“Think of it as a gift for any holiday,” Ben says.

He just knows Hux is rolling his eyes, he can _feel_ it. “Anything you give me is worth far more than one holiday gift,” he says, sighing. Hux presses his face closer, as if hiding in Ben’s cloak. “I just can’t compete.”

Ben wishes to kiss him, but he cannot—not when Hux is sitting behind him on a moving horse. Maybe later. The very thought excites him.

“I don’t expect you to compete,” Ben says. “I just want to make you happy.”

“You already do enough.”

Ben brings Saber to the riverside they’d first met at, seemingly so long ago. “Let’s get off,” he says, careful not to disrupt Hux.

Only once Hux is securely on the ground, does Ben get off Saber too. He rummages in one of her saddlebags, pulling out a cloth bound package. “Here,” he says, holding it out for Hux to take.

Hux just holds it, tracing the paper packaging and the string that holds it all together.

“Go on,” Ben insists. “Open it.”

Hux does so hesitantly, tugging on the strings and pulling them free. He has the audacity to peel away the paper and fold it carefully.

Ben had gotten him an outfit designed by Citripio, to Hux’s measurements even. Hux traces the green floral patterns on the button-up shirt, traces small, nearly perfectly hidden buttons. He feels the white pants’ fabric too, delighting in their softness.

He turns to Ben, trying a failing to conceal a smile. “Kylo,” Hux says with such softness. “It’s too much. I don’t even know if I can go to the Ball…”

Ben leans forwards, kissing him, Hux’s hands holding the folded up outfit between then. “This year, all will be invited,” he says. “Well, almost all. Peasants who are of marrying age and are single will be allowed entrance to the Ball.”

Hux laughs, shaking his head. “Now how did you pull it off, you scoundrel?” he asks, amused and overjoyed.  
Ben smiles. “A story for another time,” he says. “Think your employer will let you go?”

Hux’s smile wavers then, but he tries hard not to let it show. He nods, slowly. “I’ve never slacked in my work,” Hux says. “So… perhaps he could grant me this one favor…”

Ben doesn’t like the slight hesitation, but says nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, the Ball chapters officially begin next time!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge shoutout to my beta, archighoul. couldn't do this without you!
> 
> warning for emotional abuse/manipulation and slight physical abuse at "Lord Hux reaches forwards" until “Thank you, sir." Check out the end notes for a more specific and spoiler-y warning.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Winter.

Snow falls heavily.

Armitage looks out through the window, watching as the snow settles. It’ll be difficult moving for the carriage to take Lord Hux and his sons to the Ball.

“Ari,” Barnaby calls. “Do my hair?”

He lets go of the curtains, turning back to the dark haired boy. He sits there, in the pale blue garments, eyes wide. His cheeks have been artificially rouged. “Yes sir,” Armitage says, sitting behind the boy.

Armitage arranges Barnaby’s hair into two neat braids, pinning them at the sides of his head.

“Do you think,” Barnaby says softly, “the Prince will look on me favorably?”

Armitage shrugs. “Many people are going to the Ball,” he says simply. “And there are only three nights. Who know what’ll catch his eye.”

“That’s not a comfort,” Barnaby scoffs.

“Find yourself someone who you can charm and can support your… lifestyle,” Armitage says. “Someone who would agree to marry you after only three days. Besides, don’t you have a sweetheart?”

Barnaby sighs, every dramatic, and fans at himself with a hand. “If you could marry royalty, wouldn’t you?”

Armitage presses his lips together. “I’m afraid I haven't had any training for leading a nation,” he says dryly. For what kingdom would have use of a King who could not read or write and could only do the tasks of any other servant?

Barnaby sighs again. “Honestly,” he says. “Whatever… Ari, I feel sorry for whoever you end up marrying.”

He doesn’t say anything, just rolls his eyes and thinks of Kylo and his lopsided grins and his overlarge hands.

“Cinder wench,” Alastair calls, coming from behind a dressing curtain. He wears a mirror version of Barnaby’s clothing in a soft pink. His hair falls down. “My turn.”

Armitage stands, not bothering to say anything about the rude name. He needs to stay on their good sides for him to possibly go to the Ball.

He curls Alastair’s hair, sure to make sure everything curls softly, to flatter his features.

Alastair admires his reflection in the mirror, preening like a peacock.

Armitage stands, fists balled, and makes his way to Lord Hux.

Lord Hux stands in the sitting room, holding a paper invitation the house had received. He turns, hearing Armitage’s steps.

Armitage bows, barely meeting Lord Hux’s eyes. “Lord Hux,” Armitage says stiffly, ignoring Barnaby and Alastair, who surely come to watch. “I know it must be presumptuous to ask for such a favor, but I wish to go to the Ball, even for just one night… I can—“

Lord Hux cuts him off, holding up a hand. He turns to his sons, smiling, the smile not reaching his eyes. “Well boys,” he says slowly. “Has Armitage done a proper job as servant of the house?”

Barnaby watches with wide eyes, flickering between his father and his brother, never once looking at Armitage and how red he’s gotten.

“I guess he’s done an okay job,” Alastair says, shrugging, uninterested. “But he cannot possibly have anything nice to wear.”

Armitage purses his lips, folding his hands together. He stays silent, still, afraid of what might happen next.

“Yes,” Lord Hux says, stroking his chin. Then he waves Armitage off. “Go on, boy,” Lord Hux sneers. “Put on your best clothing. And make it quick. We must be off soon.”

“Yes my Lord,” Armitage says, wide eyed, hardly believing his luck. He walks off quickly, barely containing his excitement, barely keeping himself from breaking out into a run.

With shaking hands, he pulls out Ren’s gift to him, the shirt and pants that are far too fine for him.

Armitage dresses, throwing his uniform onto the mattress where it lies before the fireplace. He pulls his hair into a high ponytail, pulling it high on his head.

He traces the patterns on the shirt, running his fingers over the interesting texture, before pulling the Imperial coat from the closet and over his shoulders, finding it better than nothing.

He holds back a smile, holds back his excitement, holds back anything but a neutral, calm expression as he returns to the Hux’s sitting room.

Brendol Hux raises a brow at Armitage’s appearance. He circles Armitage like a shark, clucking his tongue. “Wearing an Imperial coat?” he says. “Do you wish us disgrace?”

Armitage opens his mouth—to make excuses, ‘just for the carriage ride,’ ‘just for—‘

Lord Hux reaches forwards, taking a hold of the fallen Empire’s insignia and rips it off, the noise all too loud.

His mouth falls open, but he can’t find any words.

Alastair steps forwards, taking a hold of the General’s stripes Armitage had sewn on so long ago. He tears them and the coat’s sleeve with a particularly fierce sneer. “You haven’t had any sort of training for leadership, Ari,” Alastair sneers.

Armitage steps back shaking his head.

He has not cried in years, but now his eyes flood with tears, betraying him utterly.

The coat, a gift from servants far too kind.

He takes another step back, ending towards the path to his room.

“Where are you going?” Lord Hux says, far too kindly. “You haven’t been dismissed just yet.”

“I-I understand that I am not wanted at the Ball,” Armitage says. “Please excuse me.”

“Not excused,” Alastair says, stepping forwards and grabbing Armitage’s coat.

He fights him, tugging away. “Don’t,” Armitage says, fearing for the few fine things he has.

But Alastair fights too, tearing the coat at its seams, making it utterly unwearable. “What’s this?” Alastair says, staring at Armitage’s shirt. “Have you borrowed a shirt from me?” He clucks his tongue. “White isn’t your color, cinder wench.”

And then Alastair does a terrible thing. He rips the shirt open, the buttons flying from their holes.

Armitage stands there, mouth slightly open. He’s gone numb and cold and can hardly feel a thing at all.

“Where did you even get such a gaudy thing?” Alastair says, taking a hold of the embroidery between two fingers. He looks to his brother, smiling. “Come look, Barnaby.” He tears the embroidery free from the shirt. “Look how cheap this is.”

Barnaby tuts, taking the offered piece of cloth. He looks at it quietly.

“The pants are no better,” Lord Hux remarks.

“Yes,” Alastair says, taking hold of some loose white fabric and tearing too. “So cheap. See how it tears so easily?”

“You’d be a disgrace to our good family name dressed like that. Everyone would laugh at a misplaced servant,” Lord Hux says. “Look,” he says, placing a hand on Armitage’s shoulder. Armitage struggles not to jerk away at his touch. “Wouldn’t you much rather go to your room and take a much deserved rest?”

Armitage nods stiffly, not meeting Brendol Hux’s eyes.

“Good,” Lord Hux says. “We’ve saved you from mortal humiliation. Isn’t there something you should say to us?”

“Thank you, sir,” Armitage says, numb, cold, quiet.

“Good. Best rest while you can. You’ll attend to us when we return at three in the morning,” he says. Lord Hux nods and turns away, walking out of the house to meet the carriage, his two sons not far behind him.

Slowly, Armitage makes his way to the window and watches as the carriage hurries Lord Hux, Alastair, and Barnaby through the night, snow falling all around.

He presses his hand to the cold glass, then removes it, allowing the curtains to hide the sight.

He stands there, a moment too long in his ruined clothing. His shoulders shake and he can’t hold back his bitter tears, feels them roll down cold cheeks.

How could he—even for a precious moment—think that _Lord Hux_ of all people would be kind and allow him this one small happiness. Armitage collapses, landing heavily upon his knees, pressing his palms against his eyes, as if to try to hold the tears back.

“Armitage…”

Mitaka’s voice is soft and sad. His hand on Armitage’s shoulder is hesitant, just barely there.

“Go away Mitaka,” Armitage says, wiping at his face vehemently. He stands and walks away. Had he known Mitaka were here, he wouldn’t have allowed himself that emotional display.

“No!” Mitaka says.

Armitage turns upon him, sneering down his nose at the other man.

There is something strange about Mitaka now, a clarity about him. He can’t explain it in other words, not when Mitaka is dressed the same as ever, in a servant’s uniform, hair as neat as ever, combed severely and slicked in place. Maybe it’s something about the eyes, the white of Mitaka’s eyes just a little too sharp.

“What did you say?” Armitage grits. “I’m afraid I must have misheard you. Now, I bid you a goodnight, Mitaka.” He turns away, quickly going to the servant’s quarters.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Mitaka says, catching up with him far too quickly. He takes a hold of Armitage’s wrist and spins the other man around to face him. Mitaka places his hands on Armitage’s shoulders. “You are going to the Ball.”

Armitage snorts right there. “In case you haven’t noticed,” Armitage says, gesturing at himself, “I cannot show up in torn clothing. I’d only make a fool of myself.”

“You must go to the Ball,” Mitaka says gently. “Here. I’ll share a secret with you.”

Armitage looks up.

The air shimmers around Mitaka, making him strange and familiar all at once.

“What are you doing?” Armitage asks, pulling away from him.

Mitaka stands there, a sad smile on his face. “I’m a fairy,” he says simply. “I can enchant something for you to wear to the Ball.”

Armitage watches him warily. “How do I know that you’re not lying?” he asks, pulling the torn shirt closed. Later, when all of this nonsense is over, he’ll properly grieve for the gift.

“Here,” Mitaka says. He stretches out a hand and a wand appears—like pure light condensed, a glittering dust spilling from it as Mitaka waves it about Armitage.

Armitage shuts his eyes and tries hard to avoid sneezing. The dust sticks to his skin and he breathes it in. His skin buzzes.

“There,” Mitaka says carefully. “Open your eyes please.”

Armitage does.

In front of him, Mitaka holds a mirror, offering Armitage his reflection.

A coat is wrapped about his thin form, pinched tighter at his waist with an overlarge belt. The golden buttons gleam down his middle. Red and gold accents mark the sleeves and the collar to the jacket. A large, blue bow sits pinned at his throat.

Armitage moves one leg out, examining the fine black boots, with slight heels at their ends.

“How…?” he says, shaking his head, not understanding.

“I’m your fairy godfather,” Mitaka says.

Armitage shakes his head, laughing. “I’ve heard of no such thing.”

“Yes, well,” Mitaka scratches at his cheek. “Usually, fairy godparents are given to… young and virtuous maidens in need of aid,” he says weakly, staring at Armitage. They both know Armitage is not so young nor virtuous and certainly he is no maiden.

“Why help me then?” Armitage asks.

Mitaka gives another twist of his wand, fairydust sprinkling upon Armitage’s hair. He feels his hair arrange itself into a braid at the nape of his neck. Mitaka offers the mirror again, showing how red Armitage’s hair has become.

The fairy smiles weakly. “Consider it a repayment,” he says cryptically. “Come now… is there anything in the house vaguely resembling a carriage?”

Armitage only stares, face set in a bewildered expression. “Resembling a carriage,” he repeats dryly. “Like what, some sort of fruit?”

Mitaka snaps his fingers. “Yes,” he says, a bit too excitedly.

Armitage rolls his eyes, walking past the fairy to the kitchens. He picks an apple from one of the cabinets, holding it out. He meant to bake it into a cake. “Will this do?”

Mitaka takes it from his hand, absolutely beaming. “One carriage, right away,” he says, just about to wave his wand.

Armitage stops him, snatching the fairy’s wrist. “We’re inside,” he hisses. “If you made a carriage here—“

“Oh,” Mitaka says, realizing it too. He smiles, a little bashfully. “My apologies. It’s been so long since I’ve done something like this.”

He leads the way out into the night, placing the bright red apple onto the snowy road. Mitaka waves his wand over it, fairydust sparkling at it falls upon the fruit.

One second, an apple lies there, in the other a carriage.

A large, ridiculously extravagant thing sits there, red as the apple had been.

But with no horse or other such creature to drive it.

“We don’t have any horses,” Armitage says.

“Yes we do,” Mitaka says.

A familiar meow.

“Millicent?” Armitage mutters, kneeling to scratch between the cat’s ears. “How did—?”

“I hope you won’t mind, Miss Millicent,” Mitaka says, waving his wand in a flurry. One second, Millicent is a small ginger cat. The next, she is a beautiful mare.

Mitaka leads her to the carriage. Though a terribly stubborn cat, Millicent as a horse complies easily enough.

Mitaka’s servant uniform melts away, turning into a suit befitting a carriage driver.

“Come now,” Mitaka says, offering his hand. “You only have until two before the spell melts away.”

Armitage takes it, still unsure of what he’s doing, and allows himself to be helped into the carriage. Mitaka closes the door once Armitage settles in, sitting still, staring perfectly ahead, fear and excitement waging war within him.

*

He’s not sure how long it takes for them to get to the Royal family’s palace within the Woods.

It’s beautiful, made of white stone and gleaming against the dark night sky. Armitage stares up at it, through the carriage window.

The carriage slows, then stops, and then Mitaka opens the door, extending his hand to help Armitage down.

But Armitage cannot move, thinking of Lord Hux and his sons.

Even dressed so finely as he, anyone would see he didn’t belong. Not someone so gaunt and strange looking. He’d be recognized and berated in a heartbeat.

“Mitaka,” Armitage says.

Mitaka allows his hand to drop, cocking his head to the side in a curious expression.

“Is there anything you can do…” he says, hands pressing against his narrow frame, “to make me look… less like this?”

The fairy frowns. “To make you look… less thin?” he offers.

“Less unhealthy,” Armitage corrects.

Mitaka tuts softly, his hand falling into his open palm from his sleeve. He waves it once and already Armitage feels better—less narrow, less weak, less like a sheet of brittle paper.

“It might drain you,” Mitaka says. “Make you tired… Don’t overexert yourself, or else you might catch some sickness.”

Armitage nods.

“One more thing,” Mitaka says, taking a hat from behind his back. It’s black, with red and gold thread around its middle. Mitaka places it on top of Armitage’s head. “You’ll only be recognized by those you want.”

Armitage allows a smile. “Thank you,” he says.

Mitaka helps him down from the carriage, leading him through the crowds, Armitage’s hand upon Mitaka’s elbow. “This is just a repayment,” he says again, kindly enough. “You have nothing to thank me for.”

But he does.

So much to be thankful for.

With the main ballroom in sight, Mitaka vanishes with the words “two o’clock” upon his lips.

There are two levels to the ballroom. The higher level is a balcony and stairs. People dressed to perfection, hair perfectly styled and faces perfectly painted, wait for their names to be announced.

“Lord and Lady Belmose.”

“Lady Astari of the house Lu.”

“Lord Thrawn, first of his name.”

“Mister and Mister Goldberg.”

The names go on and on.

But Armitage does not want an introduction, especially not for a mystery prince and the Queen.

People on the lower level dance, a young couple at the very center. A young woman, hair cropped very short, dances with a man, laughing and spinning one another. They don’t seem to know the steps to the dance, but it doesn’t really matter when they have each other. It seems all the other dancers stare at them, but not judgingly, even with the unusual dancing.

The woman’s dress is beige and not at all voluminous, a strange fashion choice considering the other dancers. A small circlet has been placed around her head. The man wears a beige suit, as if to match his partner’s, awards pinned to his chest.

Armitage frowns, a little wistful, looking for his Kylo.

Slowly, he makes his way down those steps.

The dancing crowds part as his booted feet meet the main floor of the ballroom.

Ren stands there, dressed in heavy black fabric, gold and red sewn to accent his trim waist and his muscular figure. It’s similar to the apparel of a Knight of Ren, only much more formal. He wears a long cloak too, billowing behind him though there isn’t any wind.

Armitage goes to meet him, pushing through the crowd of puffed up skirts, hardly remembering to say anything as he does so. His heart pounds in his chest. If it beat any louder, Ren would be sure to hear it.

He hears the gasps, the “oh, how rude,” the little tuts of disapproval. But he doesn’t care.

Ren meets him, looking at him fondly. A dancing crowd surrounds them, sending judgemental looks.

Then Ren comes to one knee, the cloak pooling around him like liquid, and takes Armitage’s hand, pressing a kiss upon his knuckles. Ren looks up, his dark eyes meeting Armitage’s own, even as the dancing couples stop in their steps to stare, open mouthed.

“May I have this dance?” Ren asks, lips quirking up to his familiar, lopsided smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More detail on the earlier warning: Lord Hux and his sons tear Armitage's outfit while berating him and the clothes.
> 
> \--Fun stuff: I meant to add a link to what Armitage wears in the chapter but I forgot earlier:  
> https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-a8JZLTLsFck/V6Ll-iYdFdI/AAAAAAAHr20/IT9hjPJ8xusYMKc70er2A8WxnlGiOugAgCEw/s1600/2.jpg
> 
> Kylo basically wears his TFA outfit, just a little fancier.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks once again to archighoul!
> 
> no warnings for this chapter! references to clothing worn at the end.
> 
> Edit 5/31: ee-void drew a lovely comic for one of the scenes in this chapter!  
> http://ee-void.tumblr.com/post/161276044485/a-scene-from-16th-chapter-of-if-the-slipper-fits

Hux absolutely glows, like he’s lit from within. He wears clothing Ben has never seen before, a slick and elegant jacket held closed by gleaming buttons and a pinched belt, a military-style cap upon his head.

Ben keeps his hands on Hux’s hips as they dance to the music. He’d like to just steal Hux away, out of view of all the prying eyes. They have no right, gaping and staring like that.

Honestly. Could they not mind their own business?

Or at least stare at Rey and Finn?

Rey and Finn were too caught up in one another to notice. And, besides, even if they noticed, they’d certainly enjoy chattering with these people, not knowing how two faced society could be.

At least Hux doesn’t seem to notice the stares either.

The song ends, the strings quieting, quieting until they play no more.

Ben slides his hands away from Hux’s hips to his hands, reveling in their softness. “Would you like to get some fresh air?” Ben asks, bringing one of Hux’s hands up and placing a kiss to the knuckles.

Hux smiles at him genuinely, warmth flooding his eyes. “Of course,” he says easily.

Ben stretches out one arm as he dashes through the crowd, pulling Hux behind him. The guests part in startled gasps at the entirely unprincely manner. But he doesn’t care.

Hux doesn’t see him as Prince Ben, one of the heirs to the throne. He just sees him as Kylo, a Knight of Ren and a friend.

Ben brings him outside, into the night air. The sky is littered with bright stars, the moon hanging low. “Come on,” Ben calls, letting go of Hux’s hand and running to the entrance of a hedge maze.

The bushes are always green with life, but no flowers grow on them now so deep in winter. Instead, snow clings to their branches stubbornly, hiding some of the green.

Hux chases after him, booted feet sinking heavily in the snow. “Where are you even going?” Hux calls behind him.

Ben slows, turns a corner, and waits for Hux to catch up. “This is Queen Leia’s garden,” he says. He offers Hux his hand. Hux takes it, lacing their fingers together.

Hux snorts, rolling his eyes at that. “Are we even supposed to be here?” he asks. “I’d like for us not to get in trouble with the Prince for ruining his Ball.”

Ben smiles, maybe a little too widely, maybe a little too nervously. “I’m sure the Prince wouldn’t care,” he says. “And besides, most of the people are here to see the lost Princess.”

Hux raises one brow. “Lost Princess?” he repeats. “So she was found?”

Ben hums. “They say she was wanted for magic she could control,” he says, leading them to his favorite part of the maze. A tree stands there stubbornly, a set of swings hung from a branch. Ben wipes away the snow from the seat and gestures for Hux to sit. “She could heal people with her magical glowing hair.”

It’s hard to say that seriously.

It’s hard to take that sort of sentence seriously too it seems. Hux laughs, a short bark, before sitting onto the swing. “You must be joking,” Hux says.

Ben pushes the swing, hands warm against Hux’s back. He laughs. “I wish I were,” Ben says honestly. “It’s hard to believe. I can understand faeries and their inherent magic… but magical healing hair takes it a little bit too far.”

“Have you any proof of her claims?” Hux asks, booted feet kicking the ground to boost him along on the swing.

“The man she’s brought with her from her adventures. Finn,” Ben says. “He has a scar on his back. Both he and the Queen’s Knight back her claims of magical healing hair, saying that Princess Rey was the one to heal Finn.”

Hux shakes his head and lets out a low whistle. “How fortunate for Finn then,” Hux says. “It sounds as if her ability would be useful.”

“Would be,” Ben says shrugging. “It appears that she can no longer heal with her hair shorn short.”

“How sad then,” Hux says. “Her ability could have been utilized in so many ways.”

“I wish you’d compliment me like that,” Ben says, pushing Hux on the swing.

Hux looks back at him as he swings back to Ben’s waiting hands. “If I compliment you too much, you’d never fit your ego through a door. Is that what you’d want?”

Ben stops the swing, holding onto the chains until they still. He crowds Hux, wrapping his arms around the man’s shoulders and nuzzling his neck.

Hux squirms underneath him, slapping at his hands.

“Are you ticklish?” Ben teases.

“No!” Hux denies, giggling in a way that betrays the lie. “Quit it, quit it!”

Ben pulls away, taking a few steps back to the maze. “Come on,” he insists. “You wouldn’t want to miss the food. There’s so many deserts.” He groans just thinking of sweet pastries filled with fruit preserves.

Hux stands and walks with him, through the maze of tall edges. “You know,” Hux murmurs, “for such a fit man, you sure do enjoy your sweets.”

Ben only pulls him closer.

*

A meal is eaten—roasts of all kinds, sweet pastries, sweet breads.

“One more dance?” Ben asks, the music swelling already.

Hux agrees to it, allowing himself to be brought to the Ballroom’s main floor. Already people gather, looking for their partners or finding new ones.

Taking his proper position and guiding Hux into his own, the couple dances without a care in the world.

And then the clock strike two and Hux stiffens in his arms, staring open-mouthed out at the clock tower. He doesn’t return to the dance, only standing stock still amongst the crowd of dancing people.

“What’s wrong?” Ben asks, holding his hands, as if to give a little comfort.

Hux pulls away from Ben, tearing his hands from his grasp. “I need to go!” he hisses, already running, pushing and shoving people out from his way.

Ben follows him, brows knitted in worry.

“What’s wrong?” he says again, following Hux step for step upon the all too steep stairs. “Please,” Ben says, catching Hux’s wrist and pulling his hand back to rest over Ben’s chest.

Hux tightens his hand into a fist, nails digging into the skin of his palm. “I have to go,” he says, still not explaining why. His brows furrow low on his face. “I’ll be here tomorrow. Just… let go.”

He lets go, even though he doesn’t want to. “Promise?” Ben says.

Hux nods. “Promise.” And then he turns around, coat hardly moving on his narrow frame, and leaves the Winter Palace, all in an awful rush.

Ben sighs and turns around.

People stare at him, like he’s some sort of circus animal. They’re waiting, he realizes, just waiting to see if Prince Ben will snap now that his dance partner’s run off on him.

Ben scowls at them and sweeps off to some dark corner, where he can stand and be unbothered.

Or at least, that was his plan.

His mother stands before him wearing a simple white gown, the same style she’s always seemed to favor. She quirks one brow, giving him an odd look. “Ben,”  Leia says, a bit sternly. “Would you do me a favor and be my dance partner?”

He wants to say no.

He wants to brood and cross his arms over his chest and glare menacingly at any passing-by individual.

Instead Ben sighs and assumes the leading position.

She corrects him, taking the lead. Ben lets her. “So,” Leia says. “Who were you dancing with? Seemed like you knew him.”

“He’s a friend,” Ben mumbles, avoiding his mother’s heavy gaze.

“Very dramatic,” Leia says dryly, “for a Prince to kneel and kiss a lover’s hand.”

He feels himself blush, even as words spill out from his lips. “We’re not exactly _lovers_ ,” he mutters. As if his mother needs to know anything of his intimacies.

“Just who is he?” Leia says. “I don’t remember seeing anyone that looked like him before.” Ben allows Leia to spin him, even if he has to duck to make it work. Leia frowns, the lines between her brows deepening. “Actually,” she says slowly. “I can’t quite recall what he looks like.”

Ben meets her eyes, her fierce and warm eyes gone so suddenly cold and concerned.

“What do you mean by that?” Ben says. “He looks very distinct. Not many people have red hair, you know.”

“Red hair,” Leia repeats. She shakes her head, like pulling herself out of a daze. “Ben,” she says, pressing her lips into a fine line, “you know I hate giving you orders—“

He groans right there, loud enough for other dancers to hear.

“But I forbid you from speaking to that man again,” Leia says with finality.

“What?” Ben gapes, pulling away from his mother, bumping into a dancing man, sending him and his baby blue wearing ass sprawling onto his dance partner. “Mom, I’m not a child anymore.”

She stands there, still, sorrow crossing her aged face. “Ben,” she says again, low, mindful of the ears around them. “We’ll speak about this later.”

Ben shakes his head. “The hell we will,” he growls, narrowing his eyes and storming off.

*

The royal family stays at the Winter Palace for all of the Ball.

It just means that Ben stays in a room far too big and far too empty with a heart racing so quickly, just thinking about what would happen in the next night. More chances to dance with Hux, eat with Hux, speak with Hux.

He lies alone on his too big bed, blankets piled on top of him. Ben rests his hand on top of his forehead, staring up aimlessly at the white ceiling.

And at the end of the third night, maybe the bed won’t be so lonely. If only Hux would accept a marriage proposal from him.

(His stomach twists, churning uncomfortably. Would he tell Hux the truth of his identity before or after the proposal? Stars, how’d he go about hiding his identity for so long.)

_Knock knock._

He ignores it, but his train of thought has already been lost.

“Ben,” his mother’s voice calls through the door. “Ben?” Leia tries the handle and finds it locked. Ben smirks, closing his eyes.

She sighs heavily behind the door. “I worry for you,” she mutters, speaking more to herself than to Ben. “At least… do an iron test to see if he’s fae. Faeries only have want for power, it seems.”

She sounds older, more tired.

“Don’t go and break your own heart now,” Leia says, sighs. She walks away.

*

The second night of the Ball, has Ben dressed in a black robe, lined with bright gold, a similar gown underneath. He stands by the steps, just waiting for the guests to be let in.

Phasma stands at his side dressed in a red gown, a slit running down the side of it starting at her hip. She still manages to look imposing, lips painted red as she smiles viciously.

“So,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Waiting for your boyfriend?”

Ben snorts, but doesn’t deny it. “Waiting for your girlfriend?’ he asks instead.

Phasma smirks. “Of course,” she drawls. “She promised to dance the night away. I’ll take her up on that offer.”

The doors open suddenly, a cold breeze blowing in falling snow.

One of the announcers clears his throat.

Names are read as people make their slow procession down to the ballroom’s main level. Some people bow or curtsy at Ben, but none so far ask him for a dance.

And then—

A strange man dressed up as a courier comes to stand beside the Royal Family’s announcer. “May I present,” the man says, stretching out an arm in a grand gesture, “the Prince of the Woods.”

Hux stands proud and tall, his gown moving with the breeze. He keeps his chin tilted up defiantly as he goes down each step one by one. There’s a slight wobble to his steps, one that Ben finds reason for once Hux has made his way to him.

He’s wearing heeled shoes, once again, Ben realizes, looking down to where Hux’s feet poke out from white, nearly sheer, fabric.

“My eyes are up here,” says Hux dryly.

Ben meets them, finding himself lost in the bright and vivid green. He holds out a hand and Hux takes it. “Would you care to dance?” he asks.

Phasma sighs over dramatically. “Just leave me all on my lonesome,” she mutters. “That’s fine…”

Hux allows himself to be lead properly to the ballroom floor, music swelling as they begin to dance.

Others follow in their footsteps, quickly falling into step with hastily found partners.

Up above them on the Ballroom’s second level, Ben feels his mother’s eyes upon them both.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> links with references to the outfits the boys wear in this chapter:
> 
> A mashup of these two outfits for Hux:  
> http://gaygalaxyguy.tumblr.com/post/157296309182/skaodi-georges-hobeika-haute-couture  
> http://gaygalaxyguy.tumblr.com/post/156336857742/sixpenceeefashion-krikor-jabotian-couture-ss
> 
> from this photoset, the outfit shown at the bottom, but in black  
> http://gaygalaxyguy.tumblr.com/post/149055704957/highfashionpakistan-zaheer-abbas-primavera


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for this chapter !!  
> When the text reads [“You,” Lord Hux seethes.] till the end of the chapter. This scene contains physical violence and emotional abuse. More specific warning followed by a summarization at the end of the chapter.
> 
> Edit 6/1: ee-void has created another piece for this work!   
> http://ee-void.tumblr.com/post/161306739430/ee-void-armitage-sees-green-red-tinged-eyes

“What do you feel about slippers?” Mitaka asks him while braiding his hair. Mitaka pins braided sections against his skull, pinning silver decorations and beads and bobbles onto sections. Armitage swears he sees delicate pearls added onto his hair, clinging stubbornly to the strands.

“Like the ones worn to bed?” he asks.

Mitaka makes a frustrated noise. “No,” he says, gesturing to the dress Armitage wears. “Slippers,” he repeats. “Heeled ones. Would you be willing to wear them?”

Armitage sours. “Really?” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why?”

Mitaka presses his lips into a fine line. “Well… well…” he stutters, playing with his fingers. “Um, boots would not go with the dress?” he offers, voice pitching at the end, making it sound like more of a question than not.

He looks down at nearly sheer fabric, sees the pale skin of his knees. He sighs too, because of course Mitaka has to be _right._

“Great,” Mitaka cheers, creating heeled shoes out of nothing, white as the dress and the backs glinting, silver trees creeping up the heels, up towards his ankles.

Mitaka helps Armitage stand from his comfortable seat on the living room’s couch. “Let’s go,” he says, having already charmed an apple and poor little Millicent. He escorts Armitage, allowing Armitage to hold onto his elbow.

“Has Kylo proposed just yet?” Mitaka asks lightly.

Armitage hates how his face warms at that. “Mitaka,” he says sternly. “That’s thinking too far ahead.”

Mitaka frowns, looking troubled. “Very well,” he says. “Let’s go.”

*

Armitage had not given much thought to Mitaka’s troubled look. He stands upon the steps leading down to the Ballroom when _it_ happens.

“The Prince of the Woods!” Mitaka announces, his words carrying throughout the large, cavernous room.

He grits his teeth. “Oh, Mitaka,” Armitage says, making his way to the bottom of the steps, right where Ren waits for him. And beside him stands Phasma, that captain of the guards, blonde hair tousled and light.

Ren doesn’t look him in the eyes, but instead stares at Armitage’s feet.

He scowls. “My eyes are up here,” Armitage says.

Ren holds out a hand, smiling brightly. “Would you care to dance?” he asks.

Armitage allows himself to be swept onto the dance floor, one hand held in Ren’s own, the other arm draped across Ren’s broad shoulders.

“So,” Ren says, a mischievous glint to his warm brown eyes. “What’s all this about being the Prince of the Woods?”

Armitage sighs, rolling his eyes. “Oh, that was a fellow servant,” he says dismissively. “Thought it would be an oh so _brilliant_ way for me to get wedding proposals.”

Ren’s grip upon his shoulder tightens in an almost possessive way as they dance. The music almost doesn’t seem to matter. Armitage cannot hear it over the sound of his own heart.

Ren’s thumb rubs against Armitage’s knuckles, soft and sweet.

He allows himself a smile.

It’s the happiest he’s been in a long while, dressed in enchanted clothing, dancing with a man he loves, within the company of both commoners and nobility, with no one to order him around.

It’s foolish to think that, but in the moment, he wishes the whole Ballroom would realize who he is—a commoner dressed like a king.

Ren watches Armitage, eyes bright and wet, and hopeful in the warm light of the Ballroom. He wets his lips, tongue poking out from between. “About that,” he says, pulling Armitage closer. “Marriage proposals,” Ren says awkwardly, licking his lips once again.

And then they’re interrupted.

The Queen and her Consort Prince make their way to the Ballroom floor. They dance, coming closer and closer.

“Let’s get out of here,” Ren all but growls, moving them away from the Royal couple, pulling Armitage with each movement.

“Ren,” Armitage hisses, pushes him back. “It’s like you’re trying to run away.”

Ren’s face has always been easy to read. Watery eyes and the start to one of his puppy-like frowns… He really was trying to run away from the family he serves.

Armitage rolls his eyes. Of course.

Knowing Ren, he probably got into an argument with the Queen. At her Ball, thrown in honor of her son, the Prince.

A young man Armitage had not seen just yet.

All around them, couples switch partners in flashes of skirts and robes. Armitage is pulled from Ren and finds himself in another’s arms.

This woman is one that he knows, at the very least. Phasma grins broadly. “Shall I lead, or you, Mister _Prince of the Woods_?” she says teasingly.

He rolls his eyes. “You lead,” Armitage says.

She makes some strange amused noise. “I guess it can’t be easy to dance in those slippers,” Phasma says.

The woman leads forcefully, skillfully.

“So,” Armitage says carefully, “you were taught dancing along with combat?”

She preens at that. “Members of Organa’s court must be well rounded,” Phasma says. Her steely eyes meet him easily. “It’d be refreshing to hear your frank thoughts. No need to be worried of little ol’ me.”

He presses his lips together and says nothing.

Again, people switch partners in a flurry. He sees no point to it. He looks through the crowds of swirling fabrics, looking for Ren.

But instead someone else finds Armitage himself.

The man is dressed in a beige jacket and a loose, relaxed shirt. He isn’t dressed as formally as anyone else within the castle. Armitage knows him all the same.

He brings himself low in a bow, avoiding eye contact with the older man. “Your Highness,” Armitage says to the Consort Prince before him.

Han Solo gives him a look and waves him off. “None of that, kid,” he says. They get into position for the dance, Han taking the lead. Armitage lets him.

He stays demure and quiet, his heart beating too loudly in his chest. He wants to clench his fists, to feel the bite of his nails against the skin of his palms, but he cannot possibly.

“So,” Han says awkwardly. “I see Ben’s taken quite the liking to you.”

Armitage furrows his brows. “Ben?” he repeats. “I’m sorry, your Highness. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Han Solo looks at him oddly, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head slightly. “Ben,” he repeats. “Prince Ben. You know, the guy you’ve been dancing with? Keep up, Red.”

He cannot move.

His blood freezes in his veins.

“Ah,” Armitage finds himself saying weakly, blinking slowly. Each breath comes out too loud. Each heartbeat comes too quickly. He needs to get some cold air. “Excuse me,” he says, pulling free from Han.

It’s difficult—pushing through so many bodies. He shoves and pushes viciously, not caring, not looking.

He needs to get out.

Armitage exits the castle, shivering with the cool breeze. He holds his arms around himself, walking slowly to the hedge maze.

His dear friend, the first person he’s kissed, has been lying to him for as long as Armitage had known him.

He clenches his fists, shaking his head.

“Hux!”

Armitage frowns. He turns, the breeze too strong against his back. He crosses his arms over his chest, hardly able to stand looking at the man. “When were you going to tell me?”

Ren— no, _Ben_ stares at him, open-mouthedly.

He shakes his head. “Don’t answer that,” Armitage spits. “You were content to keep the lie alive.”

He walks away from Ben, avoiding him entirely.

Mitaka and the carriage are out front. He’ll just… go home early. Get started on tomorrow’s chore. Go to sleep early.

“Please,” Ben says, reaching out and grabbing Armitage’s wrist.

Armitage snatches it away. “Let go of my hand, your Highness,” he snarls.

Ben’s eyes are wide and shocked. “Who told you?” he says brokenly.

He laughs. He can’t stop himself, the jagged sound escaping his throat. “Your father,” Armitage says, face burning. He shakes his head. “I can’t believe you fooled me for so long.”

“I— I didn’t mean anything bad,” Ben says. He takes a step closer, boots flattening freshly fallen snow.

“Then what did you mean by all of—“ he gestures about wildly, “—this.” Armitage blinks rapidly. “What did you get out of all of this nonsense?”

“A friend?” Ben offers, opening his arms widely.

Armitage does not allow himself to lean into Ben. He takes a step back.

“You’re one of the few people who spoke to me like I was a normal person,” Ben says softly. “Please… can you give me another chance? I-I’m sorry for lying. I just wanted to—”

Armitage frowns. “I can’t,” he says, too quickly. “I need to go.” He doesn’t have time to waste, listening to a liar.

Ben looks so sad, but Armitage doesn’t let that sway him.

He walks on, past hedges, in search of where Mitaka had parked the carriage.

“Hux,” Ben says, one last time, sounding weak and sad. “Just… will you come tomorrow? To the Ball?” He steps closer, still stubbornly not hearing what Armitage has to say. “Just one night more, and… and you’ll never have to see me again.”

“Just one night more,” Armitage repeats. He has a fur cloak to return.

*

“Where were you?” Mitaka cries, holding tightly to Armitage’s shoulders. His eyes are wide and frightened, tear tracks on his face. He lets go of Armitage and wipes pointlessly at his face.

“What’s happened?” he asks slowly.

Mitaka takes a deep breath, lip wobbling. “Lord Hux and his sons have already left the Ball. I’ve looked everywhere for you! We must go.”

It feels as if the floor drops out from under him. Armitage pitches forwards, gripping the handle to the carriage door.

“Hurry,” Mitaka says, seeming to think that he needs help opening the door.

Armitage is all but shoved inside, landing awkwardly on his side. The door is shut quickly and loudly and the carriage begins to move.

He sits up, rubbing his elbows and frowns. How had the night gone so badly?

*

“This is as far as I can take you,” Mitaka says, helping him out of the carriage.

Before them stands the Hux family home, its iron fence blocking their way. Latched shut, as Lord Hux had done when he and his sons had left for the Ball. Latched shut, as Armitage had copied him after.

He nods but doesn’t quite move. “Well,” Armitage says. “Any way to disenchant me?”

Mitaka worries his lip. He shakes his head rapidly. “I apologize,” he says. “There’s only a time expiration.” He looks at Armitage, then at the beads and other bobbles braided into his hair. “But it’s all physical. You can remove the clothing and—“

Armitage holds up a hand. “Alright,” he says. “I understand.”

He leaves behind the ridiculous fairy and—

“Wait,” Mitaka says.

Armitage turns around.

He rubs his hands together, brows furrowed low. “D-did Kylo propose?” he asks softly, daring to sound hopeful.

Armitage scowls and turns right around, slamming the gate shut behind him, and marching to the house. With every step, snow seeps into his shoes, chilling him.

He enters the house through the back door, slipping off the heels and holding them in one hand.

The house is silent and dark. Good. Armitage lets out a small breath as he descends the stairs, cold seeping through the bottoms of his feet.

The servants quarters are part of a partial subterranean level. Windows line one side of the room. Through the frosted glass, he can see part of the yard—blurry outlines of trees and shrubs.

Armitage collapses on top of his mattress on the floor, looking sadly at the fireplace.

He has to feed it wood and stoke a fire, but first removing the enchanted clothing.

He reaches behind himself, searching for the clasps that hold the gown closed.

The door to the servants quarters slams open.

“You,” Lord Hux seethes. He’s disheveled, hair out of its orderly style, eyes burning. His cravat is askew. He snatches Armitage by the wrist and drags him towards the stairs.

“I-I’m sorry,” Armitage says.

“Don’t you dare start,” Brendol seethes, dragging Armitage up the stairs. There is no sense in fighting it. Fighting his master would only lead to more pain. He’s learned that long ago.

“I take you into my home when your fool of a mother passed away,” Brendol yells, throwing him onto the living room floor.

Armitage rolls into one of the couches and yelps, carefully touching the back of his head. He curls into the fetal position, best to protect the organs.

“What is this even?” Brendol Hux demands, pulling at the elaborate hairstyle the fairy had done for Armitage. Strands of pearls and bits of silver decorate his shining locks, light and pretty for once not weighed down by dirt and grease. Brendol pulls him up by his hair.

“Boys,” Lord Hux calls, come in here.

Armitage shuts his eyes, grimacing. _Not them too—_

“Have you... been stealing from us?” Barnaby looks at Armitage, horror in his wide eyes, glittering with tears. “Haven't we... given you enough?”

Brendol lets go of Armitage.

Armitage sits up, rubbing his arms. “I haven't stolen a thing,” Armitage insists, shaking there in gifted clothing upon the cold floor. How would he even explain Mitaka and the concept of a fairy godfather—

Lord Hux backhands him, sending Armitage sprawling once again. The heavy golden ring Lord Hux wears on his right hand cuts into Armitage's skin.

He tastes blood.

“Ungrateful bastard,” Brendol says, kneeling beside Armitage's form. “Stealing from us... all this time. What would your mother think of you now?”

“I did not steal—” he insists again.

It's useless.

Brendol slaps him again, using that very same hand, ring so very heavy and solid. “Alastair... bring me a pair of scissors.”

“Yes father!” the youth says, an easy smile coming to his face. He scuttles off to the kitchen and returns in just a moment, a pair of iron scissors dangling from slim fingers.

Lord Hux would never stoop so low as to cut his sons' hair—not when barbers and stylists could just as easily be employed. But he cuts Armitage's hair, cutting free strands of pearls and little silver baubles.

Alastair kneels, scooping up the pearls in his hands, rolling them between thin, elegant fingers.

Even Barnaby falls to his knees, hesitantly picking up a silver hairclip, something that would have looked so much better, buried in his dark hair.

“There,” Brendol Hux says, cutting through Armitage's thoughts. “A mirror, if you would, Barnaby.”

Barnaby scrambles to his feet, pocketing the clip. He returns with a small handheld mirror, the very same that Armitage had used to show Barnaby his own hair earlier.

Brendol pulls the mirror from Barnaby's hands.

Armitage sees green, red-tinged eyes first, so very tired and small, glossy with unshed tears. Then his copper hair, once long, now cropped entirely too short and so very uneven. Tufts of hair stick out wildly from his head, giving an unhinged appearance to Hux's already thin and unseemly appearance.

He tilts his head, meets Brendol's gaze—eyes just as green as Armitage's own.

“Thank you sir,” he says. “It suits me well.”

This time, when Brendol hits him, he does not bother to get up so soon.

He waits until Lord Hux has grown bored and leaves, taking his sons with him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting at [“You,” Lord Hux seethes.]
> 
> More specific warning: Lord Hux drags Armitage upstairs and hits him. He also insults Armitage and accuses him of thievery. Once Brendol Hux cuts Armitage's hair, Armitage is left alone.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Summarization:
> 
> Lord Hux discovers that Armitage has been going to the Ball and dancing with the Prince. Armitage is forcibly dragged upstairs to the living room and hit by Brendol. The sons watch on and at points help Lord Hux. Brendol Hux berates Armitage while cutting his hair, freeing pearls and decorations from his hair. Lord Hux shows Armitage the haircut--short and wild, uneven--and Armitage thanks him mechanically.  
> After this, Lord Hux and his sons leave Armitage alone.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild warning for violence in two instances:  
> \--[Ben blinks away] : mild violence  
> \--[His lip wobbles and tears leak from-] : violence, see end notes for more detail
> 
> ee-void acted as beta for this chapter. huge shout out to Martin!  
> ee-void also created two pieces of artwork:
> 
> from chapter 16  
> http://ee-void.tumblr.com/post/161276044485/a-scene-from-16th-chapter-of-if-the-slipper-fits
> 
> from chapter 17  
> http://ee-void.tumblr.com/post/161286268095/armitage-sees-green-red-tinged-eyes-first-so
> 
> thank you for reading!

Ben worries.

Worries that Hux will not keep his promise, worries that he will not return for one last night. Worries that something special has been ruined far too early. Worries for what he will do and the reactions that it’ll surely bring.

But now he can’t quite think.

He sees red as he rages.

“How could you?” Ben snarls, shoving his father backwards.

The Ballroom is empty; not a soul is there to see Ben’s tantrum. Good. He doesn’t need his reputation to worsen tonight.

Han looks at him like Ben’s the strange one. He shakes his head. “Kid,” Han says, daring to sound not the least bit regretful. “I can’t believe you lied to your boyfriend for so long. They always find out the truth.”

Ben blinks away a sudden flood of tears, clenching his jaw so hard he fears he might crack a tooth. He shoves Han against the cool wall of the castle and presses his arm to Han’s throat.

Hux had only found out because Han  _ had told him. _

“Ben,” his mother says sternly, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him back. She looks at him, lips pursed, an anger lighting her eyes. “You don’t treat your father that way.”

“He ruined everything,” Ben says quietly, voice cracking. He rubs at his eyes.

Leia softens. Even just a little. “Come here,” she says quietly.

He does.

It feels a little ridiculous hugging his tiny mother. He’d grown taller than her when he was just thirteen. She reaches up, ruffling his long, dark hair. Leia huffs, smiling, just a little strained. “I’d like for you to tell us about this…”

It’s a trap, he knows. Leia just wants to gather more intelligence about his Hux.

Ben doesn’t play into it.

He steps out of Leia’s warm embrace, meets his father’s unimpressed gaze, and leaves.

“Where are you going?” Leia calls after him.

“Going for a walk,” Ben mutters. 

Leia tries to follow him, but Han reaches out a hand, touching Leia’s arm. “Leave it,” he says, touching his sore throat with the other. “Kid’s gotta blow off some steam.” He sighs, tiredly. “This comes from your side of the family.”

Leia tries hard not to roll her eyes. She fails. “We’re not starting this again.”

*

He shudders outside. It’s very late—or very early, depending on how one thinks. Ben wraps his cloak closer to himself, boots flattening freshly fallen snow.

“Hello!” someone calls, somewhere far off.

Ben freezes, furrows his brows. The voice sounds familiar, in an odd sort of way. A shiver rolls down his spine.

“Hello!” the voice calls again. “Please, sir, won’t you help me?”

Ben follows the voice, stumbling through the snow. Who could be out here so late? He had thought that everyone had left for the night to get enough sleep for the final night of the Ball.

He falls heavily, snow chilling his skin, even through the layers of clothing.

“Hello, hello,” the voice calls again, so very close.

Ben finds the strength to stand, brushing snow off of himself. He dashes, breaths coming out as little white puffs of air. He dashes, all the way to the iron fence that surrounds the castle’s lands.

A shriveled up old man stands there, looking grey in the pale moonlight. He quirks his head up to meet Ben’s eyes, hood falling back from his bald head.

It’s hard not to flinch at the old man’s appearance, the twisted scars that litter his face.

“Hello,” the old man says, the source of the voice calling for help. He smiles and Ben actually does shudder at that horrible movement.

“Hello,” Ben says weakly. “Have you gotten lost?”

The old man shakes his head. “I am meant to be here,” he says. “Won’t you let me in?”

Ben hesitates, eyes trailing back down to the iron fence. The man stands before the gate, hands folded together in front of him.

“My name is Snoke,” the old man says. “Of the Outer Rim states. I have traveled long to meet the young Prince.”

Ben shudders once again, gooseflesh rippling along his skin. He nods slowly, gloved hands reaching for the latched gate.

“My Prince,” Snoke croons once the gate is opened. “A gift for you.” He holds out skeletal hands, a black little box sitting in his palms. Before Ben can reach forwards to gracefully accept the gift, Snoke opens it.

A ring of iron sits there.

Snoke picks it up with two fingers, fingers that sizzle and burn at the touch of the metal. He places it onto Ben’s forefinger, smiling.

“The spell placed upon this ring cuts through the magic of the weak fae of these Woods,” Snoke says. He waves his hand in a slow, circular gesture. “When the time is right, you will place this ring upon your love’s finger.”

“When the time is right, I will place this ring upon my love’s finger,” Ben finds himself saying.

He blinks, finding himself along on the edge of castle property. The gate to the fence swings in the breeze.

Ben frowns and closes it.

*

He allows the servants to help him dress, trying his hair into a bun at his neck. He dresses in a black tunic, lined with gold, and matching pants. He’s quiet through all of this, brows furrowed as he thinks.

It’s not like the servants will complain. They’re probably grateful for the silence.

He stands, draping at cloak about his shoulders, and dips his heads to the servants.

They stand, perfectly silent, hands clasped together, heads bowed.

Ben makes his way for the Ballroom, pushing past strings of servants and other people. There’s only one person on his mind. Hux.

His mother and father stand on the upper level of the balcony, leaning together.

Ben scans the crowd down below. He does not see the familiar long red hair of Hux. He frowns, but continues on.

“Ben,” Leia says.

“Mother,” he says. Then he looks to Han. “Father,” he says, perhaps a little stiffly.

Beside them stands Rey and Finn, dressed in complementary suits in a deep royal blue. They don’t seem to notice Ben’s approach, instead laughing and holding one another’s hand. It’s sickening how jealous he finds himself.

“I’d like to make an announcement,” Ben says.

Leia furrows her brows and opens her mouth, but Han cuts her off.

He gestures at the banister that separates the upper level from open air. “Knock yourself out, kid,” Han says. “I’m sure the people will be all ears.”

Ben takes a few shorts steps over to the edge of the balcony level. He stands there, hands gripping the banister tightly. Those dancing couples below him still as the music stops, musicians having noticed him. So many faces peer up at him with wide eyes and flushed faces.

It almost makes him nervous.

“I, Ben Organa of Alderaan,” he says, searching for the one face he hopes to see, “renounce my throne in favor of Princess Rey.”

Murmurs break out, words indistinct and blurring together.

“Well, not like we didn’t expect that,” Han mutters.

“Excuse me,” Ben says. 

He leaves and no one stops him.

No one in the halls, no one even as he steps foot outside, where snow falls from the sky.

Ben feels lighter. Lighter than he has in years. It’s freedom, he thinks, to do as he pleases and marry who he loves. His finger itches underneath his glove, but he pays it no mind.

But Hux had not appeared.

He deflates, wrapping his cloak about him after a particularly strong breeze.

The distinctive sound of a horse trotting breaks through his cloud of misery. Ben looks open, mouth opening as an opulent green carriage makes it way through the snow led by an orange horse.

Something about the sight compels him—something all too bright and perfect.

The carriage stops and the door opens.

Hux hops down, ignoring the aid of his carriage driver, batting the man’s extended arm.

His hair, the hair that had always been long and beautiful, has been cut and smoothed away from his face in a severe manner. Hux doesn’t wear the clothing Ben had provided once again, but neither does he wear anything appropriate for the Ball.

He wears his servant’s uniform—the black shirt and pants and old shoes—with a fur cloak draped about his shoulders.

“Hux,” Ben says softly, reaching out to touch the man.

Hux doesn’t accept Ben’s hand. His glare is icy and cool. “Well?” Hux says, Ben’s heart sinking at the sound.

“I won’t ask for your forgiveness,” he says. “I… lied to you for too long.” His ears burn in shame. “But I have renounced the throne and the responsibilities that come with it. The kyber crystal you gave me now adorns the hilt of my sword.”

Ben takes a step closer to Hux, pulling off his gloves and pocketing them.

Hux takes a step back, crossing his arms and frowning.

“I will become a Knight of Ren,” he says. “A proper Knight of Ren,” Ben amends quickly. “I will take up the name Kylo Ren and serve as one of the Hunters. I can follow in the footsteps of my grandfather before me, all thanks to you.”

Hux purses his lips together, looking frustratingly unimpressed by the speech. “Is that all?” he says, tapping his long, elegant fingers against his elbow.

Ben shakes his head.

“I want to do something for you,” Ben says. “Anything you want or need. I want to help you, even if you don’t want me in your life anymore. I was thinking… we could find you a job, with some other employer… someone who will pay far better—” He reaches out and touches Hux’s ungloved hand.

Hux hisses as if burnt, pulling his hand away quickly and clutching it to his chest. He folds, hunkering and crying out. The half choked whimper breaks Ben’s heart.

“What’s wrong?” Ben says, wide-eyed with fear.

“Stay back!” the coach driver says, eyes watery, daring to try (and fail) to look fierce in front of Ben. “Hux,” the man says, reaching out and touching Hux’s shoulders. “Are you—?”

Too much happens all at once.

The coach driver is thrown into the air, body frizzing and sparking like a piece of tinder. He lands heavily into the snow, body twitching in agony.

Hux looks up, cuts blossoming onto his face, day old and slowly healing. His hair loses the careful order and instead becomes short and uneven, some strands far longer than others.

Hux looks at Ben differently now, shock and fear coloring his features. “Mitaka,” he says, voice all but a whisper, craning his neck to look at the fallen man.

But the man no longer lies there in snow.

All that remains is a pile of clothing.

The trees of the Woods shake and groan with the rising wind just outside the iron fence. Snow falls from their evergreen branches, landing heavily.

“Mitaka,” Hux repeats in horror. He scrambles backwards away from Ben. “Get away from me!” he shouts.

Ben stares, open-mouthedly at the clothes. “What…?” he says helplessly. “What happened? How…?” He looks at his hands, large and calloused, a ring pinched tightly on his pointer finger. He doesn’t remember putting it on.

He tries to pry it off of his finger, but it doesn’t budge.

Deer manifest from between the trees, led by a tall man—no, not a man. A faerie. _ The King of the Woods. _

The King stands there, long copper hair falling well past his shoulders. His eyes are burnt away, into nothing. His gown is long and white, sparkling like all the stars in the sky. But he is not here as a friendly presence. His thin lips pull into a frown.

The fence opens all on its own, peeling away like wet paper. The faerie approaches, the deer following his every step.

But the King of the Wood says nothing. His lip wobbles and tears leak from the holes in his face. 

The deer charge at Ben, looking bigger than any deer Ben has ever seen, antlers longer and far more ornate, jewelry draped about them, jewelry that glints under the light of the moon.

He runs away, heart beating in his throat, panicked. He cannot think of anything else but escaping to some sort of safety.

But he cannot run far.

A deer catches him, scraping his face against the tip of its antler. Ben cries out, falling onto the snowy floor, clutching at his his nose and his eyes. Blood runs between his fingers, trickling down and seeping into the sleeves of his tunic. 

When he gathers the strength of will to pull his shaking hands from his face, no one is there. The faerie king, the deer, and Hux have all disappeared, not even leaving footprints in the snow.

He finds his feet, shaking in the cold, and approaches the coachman’s pile of clothing.

Hux had called him Mitaka. Hux had  _ known _ him.

Ben swallows a lump in his throat and picks up the shirt.

Something falls from between its folds.

Ben’s eyes widen as he sees exactly what.

Mitaka lies in the snow no longer man-sized. He is not bigger than Ben’s little finger with delicate wings and clothes of leaf, eyes shut but still alive. Ben picks up the faerie with the ringless hand and—having no better idea—puts him in his tunic’s pocket.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning in greater detail: Ben is cut by a faerie, facial wound, blood is described.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> small warning for violence beginning at [The air was sickly with magic before.] Someone is choked. The details are not very explicit.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

They walk, feet not sinking in the snow. Instead their feet land just above it, like floating in the cold air.

The fairy—no, the  _ faerie _ that still remains in a form resembling a man, holds himself together, wrapping his arms around his stomach. He weeps softly, tears spilling from ruined eyes.

Armitage does not know what to say. His teeth chatter with the chill. He pulls Ben’s fur cloak around himself, pulling it closer, closer, cursing himself for his own weakness.

_ Kings should not weep so weakly,  _ one of the deer says, pressing close to the red-headed faerie’s side.

“Yes, yes…” he murmurs, running a hand across the deer’s neck.

Silence takes hold in the group once more.

“Excuse me,” Armitage finally manages. The faerie king’s sightless eyes find him easily. “Your Majesty,” he adds hastily.

The faerie holds up a hand. “There’s… no need for that,” he says, actually sounding a little nervous. “You may call me Techie.”

“Techie,” Armitage repeats.

The king of the faeries nods, delighted. 

“King Techie,” he says, not pausing to think about how odd it sounds. (Could Techie be short for something more… impressive sounding?) “Just what do you plan to do with me?”

The faerie plays with his own hair, braiding strands and then taking the little braids apart. “Well,” Techie says softly, “you’re one of us now. I’ll bring you to our home.”

“Mitaka,” Armitage says, “Mitaka called me the Prince of the Woods.” He waves a hand in a grand gesture towards Techie. “And you call yourself the King of the Woods. Last I checked, I was not a  _ faerie. _ ”

All his life he has dealt with iron.

And today—with the horrible, horrible touch of Ben’s ringed hand—had been the only time he’d been hurt with something made of iron.

“You may not be of our blood,” Techie says, “but you saved Mitaka’s life. He wanted to save your own.”

Armitage frowns. “It seemed he was simply trying to see me wed off,” he says.

Had Mitaka known that Kylo Renwas simply Prince Ben Organa, pretending to be a commoner? It’s too late to demand answers. He misses his friend.

“Marriage is the end of two lives and the start to a shared one,” Techie says. “Marriage changed my life for the better, even for the short time my human had… Poor Mitaka thought the same for you… that to save your life, he’d help you create a new one. I am so very sorry… He’s never been a matchmaker before,” Techie wipes at freshly spilling tears. “His heart was in the right place.”

Deer press closer, making soft, soothing sounds, the long strings of necklaces wrapped upon their antlers clinking together with the movement.

Magic hums in the air. It fills Armitage’s mouth, making him feel sick.

Nausea swims in the pit of his stomach.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Armitage mutters. He grips his elbows hard. “If anything, I—“

“Shh,” Techie says all of a sudden, tilting his head. His long red hair falls forwards as he does so. “Do you hear that?”

The air was sickly with magic before. But now it’s worse, thicker, charged with electricity.

A figure steps out from the shadow of trees. It is grey skinned, with a twisted head and horrible scars. Its eyes are yellow and animalistic, glowing in the night. “ _ You _ !” it calls, pointing a crooked finger at Armitage.

The deer shimmer in the air, like mirages and illusions. They gather together, forming a living shield before King Techie.

It doesn’t work.

The creature goes through the faeries in their deer forms like they’re not even there. It grasps Armitage by the throat lifting him into the air.

Armitage claws at the grey skin of the creature’s arms to no avail.

Like trying to scratch marble, Armitage’s fingers find no purchase.

Then he’s thrown to the ground, shaking, shivering, landing heavily in the snow.

Techie stands there, one arm extended. “I won’t let you!” he says, his hand faintly glowing. Slowly, his followers gather at his side in all sorts of forms: deer, standing taller than any deer should; human like faeries, who are hazy like early morning’s mist; other sorts of shapes, all poised to fight the grey-skinned creature. 

All of them surround their king, poised to fight this invader.

The creature is stunned by whatever Techie had done, smoking rolling from its back. “You won’t let me?” it repeats, mockingly. Its voice drips with contempt. “I have come to claim these Woods as my own—“

“You will do no such thing, Snoke,” Techie says. “You do not claim. You only destroy.” His ruined eyes grow only darker, as if the remains smolder.

“Better to do that than to let the humans think this land to be theirs,” Snoke says. He extends a hand, the air vibrating around it.

“Armie,” Techie says. “Run far and run fast.”

He doesn’t know what comes over him then.

His legs move without him thinking about it. Armitage runs—fast and far, just like the faerie had ordered. It’s magic, he thinks, tearing through the trees.

Branches swat at his cheeks. Snow seeps into his shoes, surely ruining them for good. The cloak billows behind him.

He cannot see where he goes—

Until suddenly, out of breath, cheeks growing hot.

He finds himself at the edge of a trampled path, a carriage driving past.

Armitage pulls his cloak up, to cover his head, and turns away.

“Hey there,” a voice calls, rolling the window to the carriage down as it slows. “You. Are you in need of assistance?” She speaks with surety, like there’s nothing in the world for her to fear. Like a member of the nobility.

He turns towards the carriage— _ it’d be rude not to _ . He hates to ask; it pains him, truly. But he is left with no other option.

She leans her elbow out of the window to the carriage, garbed in a black suit. Her hair, grey at the temples and in streaks throughout her hair, is pulled back from her face.

“I am alright, my Lady,” Armitage says, sure not to meet the woman’s eyes. “I am just a little lost. Would you point me in the direction of the Capital?” He speaks demurely and softly, not knowing how the noblewoman would react to his presence.

(If a person had appeared before Lord Hux in this way, Lord Hux would not even stop to ask if they were alright.)

The woman opens the door to her carriage. “As luck would have it, that’s where I’m off to. Get in. I’ll give you a ride.”

He feels cold all over.  _ No _ , he thinks.  _ Danger. _

But then again, danger seems to crawl out from every corner of the Woods, so what’s a little more?

Armitage gets into the carriage, the carriage driver impatient as he helps him in. He sinks into the plush seats in the carriage, just knowing the melted snow will seep into the fabric too.

He feels a little bad at that. Just a little.

The woman studies him for a minute, brown eyes narrowing. She wears a military-inspired suit that could pass for something Imperial he notices now. Old medals pinned to her chest, ones that look real. “What’s your name?” she asks slowly.

“My name is Revan Ren,” Armitage says evenly enough. “I’m sorry, my Lady. I… am not aware of your name.”

She raises one thin brow. “Lady Thrawn,” she says.

He has heard of that name. Lord Thrawn had been at the Ball. The famous bachelor Thrawn, unwed and not interested in marrying. He and his people are quite famous, really. Hard not to notice someone with blue skin in Alderaan. 

This woman, whoever she is, does not have blue skin. Even in the dim lighting of the carriage, he can see the warm, dark brown skin, ruling out any possibility of being related to Lord Thrawn.

Armitage smiles. So they’re both liars, for whatever reason.

“Seems like you’ve had quite the busy night,” Lady Thrawn says. “You alright?”

“Just cold,” he says. “But I will be home soon enough, my Lady. Thank you.”

“Who do you work for?” Lady Thrawn asks. Her gaze lingers on his poorly chopped hair and on the cut from Lord Hux’s ring. 

He cannot possibly tell the truth, not when she looks at him like some sort of… charity case. “Lady Sloane,” Armitage says smoothly, thinking of Alis. Oh, what she would think of all this.

Lady Thrawn makes an approving sort of noise at the back of her throat. “Lady Sloane,” she says, faintly amused. “I hear good things about her.”

Armitage nods stiffly.

They fall to silence, Lady Thrawn glancing out the windows of her quickly moving carriage.

*

He walks from just outside the capital to the Hux family home, shivering all the while. His clothes weigh heavily on him.

Once Armitage enters the house, he makes his way to his quarters, ridding himself of the clothing. He coughs, wheezing, but carries on. Slowly, he changes into dry clothing.

He  hides the all too fine cloak underneath a loose floorboard along with the other uniform. They’re both too wet to be left anywhere Lord Hux could see them. He’s already too suspicious of Armitage.

Armitage flops onto his mattress, sighing. He stares forlornly at the empty fireplace but finds himself too drained to do anything about it. He pulls a blanket over himself to keep warm.

He didn't mean to fall asleep so easily.

*

He washes the dishes in the morning, pretending not to hear Lord Hux’s conversation with his boys. They speak loudly, as always. It’s a pain. He nearly drops a plate at Lord Hux’s guffaw. 

“Armitage,” Lord Hux calls, sickenly sweet. “Would you come here, boy?”

He snorts, closing the faucet and abandoning his work. Armitage dries his hands on a towel, tossing it back onto the countertop.

Lord Hux, Alastair, and Barnaby are seated comfortably with biscuits and piping tea in cups. Armitage’s eyes go straight for the tea pot. He cannot tell how much tea is left, but surely the three of them haven’t finished yet. The back of his throat tickles, but he shouldn’t— _ cannot _ —cough in front of them.

“You danced with Benjamin Organa on the second night of the Ball, correct?” Lord Hux says.

Armitage opens his mouth and then closes it. Lord Hux has never called the Prince anything but his title. He worries.

“Use your words,” Alastair says, smirking like the devil he is.

“Yes sir,” Armitage says.

“I guess you were so poor a partner that it drove poor Ben mad,” Lord Hux says. “Did you know that he renounced his stake to the throne?” Lord Hux clicks his tongue and shakes his head, as if he is truly concerned for the other man.

“I didn’t know, sir,” he says. “I apologize.”

“You should apologize,” Lord Hux continues. “See? You truly are bad luck. I should have had you drowned as a babe. But alas, we can’t help it now.” 

Armitage stands there perfectly still. He waits to be dismissed.

But it doesn’t happen.

“We’ll go back to the old rules then,” Lord Hux says. “Only children disobey their betters. Do you miss your childhood?” He lets out a short little bark of laughter, one that causes Alastair and Barnaby to join in with their own annoying titters. 

But then Lord Hux waits, waits expectedly for an answer.

“No sir,” he says.

“Could have fooled me,” Lord Hux says. “To think you’d return to arts and crafts at this age.”

Armitage blinks. “I’m sorry, sir?” he says. He does not have the faintest clue what Lord Hux is talking about. His throat itches terribly. He cannot hold back his coughs for long.

“The little bobbles in your hair,” Alastair says, “turned out to be bits of paste and other cheap materials. To think you tricked us so easily.” He turns to Barnaby, laughing. “Just how much did we drink at the Ball?”

Barnaby smiles at his brother, a weak and wavering smile.

Lord Hux shakes his head. “You’re dismissed.”

Armitage returns to the kitchen, where he cannot help but break into a fit of coughing, eyes watering all the while.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, huge shout out to my beta, misfaemy !!
> 
> The end is steadily approaching. No major warnings for this chapter, but Ben's facial wound is discussed.

“What happened?” Leia says when she sees him. Her eyes are wide and worried. She reaches up, as if to touch his face. She’d been the one to find him as he made his way back into the castle, stopping him before he could enter the ballroom.

He flinches back, out of Leia’s reach. “Don’t,” Ben warns. The bleeding has stopped by now, but his face still hurts. He’d never been pretty. He just knows the wound the faerie had left would scar.

“Nothing,” he says, hand rising to cover the wound.

“That sure doesn’t look like nothing,” Leia says sternly. “Who hurt you? I’ll send Poe to find them and put them to jail.” She clicks her tongue, staring. “Did they use a sword? Did you fend them off? Ben?”

Ben shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he says—quite possibly the worst thing you could say to a mother. “Don’t worry about them.”

Her face hardens. “Was it the man who danced with you?” she says. Leia doesn’t even wait for an answer. She shakes her head and stalks off, pulling Ben by his elbow.

“It wasn’t him,” Ben says miserably. He can think of no worse noise than the

sounds Hux had made when the ring… did whatever it did. 

“Then who was it?” Leia says, her sharp eyes staring once more at the crusty blood. “I find it to believe that it’s no one’s fault.”

Ben sighs. “Fine. A faerie did it.”

“Was I supposed to laugh at that?” Leia asks.

“No,” he huffs. “The King of the Woods appeared. So did some deer.” Ben holds up his hand, that ring of iron sticking stubbornly to his finger. He tries to remove it, but it won’t budge. “I need this ring off.”

“You’re not making any sense. Did you hit your head too?” Leia mutters. She holds up a hand. “Actually, don’t answer that.”

She steers him to a very familiar room.

Master Luke’s residences within the winter castle. The scent of herbs and other healing objects linger thickly in the air. 

“Uncle Luke is here?” Ben asks. “Haven’t seen him at the Ball.”

Leia looks tiredly at him. “Luke got here last night. But you wouldn’t notice anyone, not when you found that strange boy,” she mutters. “Gods, I told you that you could marry who you like, but I was hoping you’d choose someone I know at least a little bit about.”

“Mother,” Ben hisses.

“Why couldn’t you fall in love with Lando’s son or one of Artoo and Tripio’s children? It’d be easier,” she mutters, clearly not wanting this talk to be over.

“What’s this about love?” Luke says, seeming to materialize out from some dark corner. He wears the same simple beige garments as always.

Leia sighs. “Nothing Luke,” she says. “Can you fix up Ben?”

Luke takes a long look at the cut. “How did you anger the faeries of these Woods? They’re fairly peaceful folk.”

“This thing is all it took,” Ben says bitterly, brandishing his hand.

Luke steps closer, looking at the iron ring. “Hmm,” he manages. “Who gave you this ring?” He touches it gingerly with one prosthetic arm, face pinched in concentration.

“Why?” Ben says, drawing back.

“It’s filled with dark magic,” Luke says. “Whoever gave it to you is as evil as they come. Who gave it to you?” he demands again.

Ben has seen his uncle frightened before: the lowered brows and the narrowed eyes don’t change how Luke’s hands tremble.

“I don’t remember,” Ben says.

“Was it the man?” Leia asks. “The one that danced with you?”

Ben shakes his head furiously. “He didn’t do it.”

“How can you be sure—?”

“Because,” Ben grits through his teeth, “the ring hurt him when I touched him.”

Leia narrows her eyes and says nothing. The gears in her head turn, clearly not believing him, still suspicious of poor Hux.

(Wherever he is… Ben hopes he’s alright.)

“Interesting,” Luke says slowly. He tries to pull the ring from Ben’s finger. It doesn’t budge. He shakes his head. “That won’t work.” Luke walks off, murmuring something underneath his breath.

“Where are you going?” Leia asks.

“Looking for something,” Luke says. “Moisturizer… or butter. Something to try to get that ring off.” He kneels, rummaging through a cabinet, pulling a jar out. “Though, it might be cursed.”

His whole life feels cursed, Ben thinks. “Cursed how?” he demands.

“There’s a lot of different curses out there, Ben,” Luke says. He settles onto a couch, gesturing for Ben to come closer. He slathers Ben’s finger with the lotion and tries to remove the ring.

It doesn’t budge.

“I think this one can only be removed by whoever put it on,” Luke says. He sighs.

“There must be some other way,” Leia says.

“That depends on how attached Ben is to the finger,” Luke says with a smile.

No one laughs.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Anyway, I can’t remove it, but…”

“But what?” Ben demands. Something, there must be  _ something _ , that can be done.

“But I can alter the curse a little,” Luke says. He touches the ring very carefully, murmuring something softly under his breath.

Ben doesn’t understand. But he doesn’t have to.

“There,” Luke says carefully.

“What did you do?” asks Leia.

“Added someone who can remove the ring,” Luke says. 

“I hope you mean one of us,” Leia says.

Luke shakes his head. “I don’t think there’s a possibility of that,” he says evenly enough. “Now both the faerie that gave Ben the ring and the man I hear Ben is in love with can remove it. As long as he counts as a true love…” Luke murmurs this last part to himself.

Ben groans. “It hurt him last time he touched it,” he says. “I… don’t want to hurt him.”

“You won’t,” Luke says, placing his hand on Ben’s shoulder and squeezing. “You’re a good kid, Ben.”

He wants to shrug Luke’s hand off of his shoulder. He doesn’t.

“Hey, um, Uncle Luke… could you do something about—?” Ben says, gesturing at the wound on his face.

“Oh yes. I almost forgot,” Luke says, turning around and sorting through his medical supplies. 

*

Days pass and yet his mother says nothing about finding Hux. 

Ben waits impatiently, Luke and Rey checking on the wound.

“It’s healing wonderfully, but it’ll probably still scar,” Luke says.

Ben nods, accepting it. One more scar, one more mark, it doesn’t matter, so long as Hux will accept him. Just to make sure Hux is safe and happy. Just to get rid of his own curse.

Rey sighs slightly. “Times like this I wish I hadn’t cut my hair…”

Luke snorts. “What’s done is done, Rey. Don’t linger so much in the past.”

She nods, but does not look too happy with what he says. Duty sits heavily on her shoulders, to the country she will someday rule, to her father and his Jedi teachings, and to each and every tutor she is surely seeing.

Ben is lost in a world of his own, his own duties weighing heavily.

To deliver the sleeping faerie to Hux and to make things right.

To serve the Knights of Ren.

(To hope that he and Hux can have a happily ever after…)

But for now he waits.

*

“I need to find him,” he tells his mother at the dining table of their normal castle. The Ball had ended days ago, people disappointed with the Prince’s choice. (But maybe not too disappointed. After all, now Rey will rule, with Finn at her side…)

Leia shakes her head. “No,” she says firmly, her eyes too fixed on the scar on his forehead. “I forbid it.”

“Mother,” Ben says, trying to reason. He takes her small hands and leans close. “You heard Uncle Luke. Only whatever put this cursed ring on my hand and my true love can remove it…”

She presses her lips together. “There must be another way,” Leia says. “I’m not letting you look for some mystery man who caused faeries to hurt you.”

“He didn’t want them to hurt me,” Ben hisses.

“He didn’t stop them either,” Leia says.

And she leaves, ending the conversation.

*

Mitaka, the faerie the size of Ben’s little finger, still sleeps on his back on a cushion of handkerchiefs. He’s so terribly small, mouth just slightly open, face pinched in his unnatural sleep. Luke has told him of curses. He hopes this isn’t True Love’s Kiss.  (He wouldn’t even know where to start, looking for Mitaka’s True Love.)

Ben pours water into a bowl, sprinkling sugar into it. Faeries, especially the small ones, love sugared water, he knows. Mitaka isn’t any closer to waking up, even after Ben feeds him.

He waits.

*

Phasma still spars with him, even though she doesn’t have to.

She wins, easily. Too easily. 

He’s distracted, sick with worry. Hux had looked so tired, deep purple circles underneath his eyes. And he’d been hurt. A cut upon his face… 

Phasma knocks him to the ground.

“You’re too distracted,” she says, clicking her tongue. Then Phasma extends her hand. “Here,” she says, helping him up. Leaning close, she whispers, “When are we going after your boy-toy?”

Ben scowls. “Don’t call him that.”

“Sorry,” she says, holding up her hands, lips twisted into a smile. “I meant  _ lover _ .”

His scowl only grows more fierce. His feelings for Hux haven’t changed… but the reveal of his identity might have cost them anything they could have had together.

“I just want to make sure he’s safe,” Ben says. It sounds weak, even to himself. He wants to see Hux safe and happy, and away from employers who treat him so poorly.

“We can look through Alderaan’s tax records,” Phasma says. “What’s his full name? Hux is his given name, but what of his surname?”

Ben shakes his head. “He never told me,” he says sadly. “And besides, his pay is so terrible, he wouldn’t qualify for taxes.”

Phasma sighs. “Looks like it’ll be more difficult then… Well, it’s not like we can go door to door looking for him.”

He doesn’t say a word, just thinking of that very idea.

She groans. “Are we going door to door?” Phasma asks, shaking her head. “At least get permission from—“

“My mother wouldn’t grant me anything,” Ben hisses, turning on his friend.

Phasma looks less than impressed. “I was going to say that you get permission from your  _ father _ .”

Ben stands there. He nods. “Yes,” he says slowly. Why didn’t he think of that earlier… Han would hardly be one to say no.

*

Ben had been avoiding his father. He felt like Han had been avoiding him too.

He corners Han as Han packs hurriedly.

“Where are you going?” Ben asks.

Han looks up, fear sparking in his eyes for just a moment. “Ben,” he says, eyes lingering on the scar. “What are you doing here?”

“Where are you going?” Ben says. 

Even now, Han doesn’t stop, folding clothes atop the bed he shares with Leia and throwing them into his bags. “Kiddo, me and the boys are heading out—“

Ben snorts.

Han is leaving again, just when Ben needs his father on his side. Typical.

Han frowns at that. “What’s the matter?” he asks.

Ben shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that,” Han says. He sits and gestures at the edge of the bed. “Come on.”

Ben sits then, gingerly at the very edge of the bed, stiff and wary.

Han puts a heavy arm across Ben’s shoulders and pulls his son close. “You can talk to me,” he says.

Ben blinks. “I… want to look for the man I danced with. At the Ball.”

“Still can’t believe you didn’t tell that guy who you were,” Han mutters, ignoring the souring of Ben’s face. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Ben says, gritting his teeth. “But now I am. And I worry about him. I know his living situation is… not ideal. I want to make sure he’s okay and maybe find him somewhere else to live.” 

Somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. Somewhere he’ll be happy.

“And you’re telling me because…?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ben huffs. “I’m asking for your permission to go and look for him because I  _ know  _ mom wouldn’t let me.”

Han gives him a long, tired look. “You know you’re an adult right? Even though I call you a kid.” He sighs, too. “And not like you’re gonna rule Alderaan. Go and do what you gotta do,” he says, clapping Ben on the shoulder.

Ben blinks incredulously.

“And if mother doesn’t approve?” he says slowly.

Han shrugs. “Deal with that when you get to that point.”

*

He dresses in a set of riding pants and matching tunic, draping a heavy fur cloak over his shoulders. Phasma waits for him with their horses. The sooner they ride out, the faster they can get to houses, going door to door until they find Hux.

Mitaka the faerie still sleeps, making scared little faces in the unnatural slumber.

Carefully, Ben picks him up and tucks him into his tunic’s pocket, handkerchiefs and all.

If Mitaka could wake up as they ride… well, perhaps they’d find Hux sooner.

But for now, Phasma’s plan will have to do.

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for reading! (I very nearly After this, there's (most likely, unless I get carried away again, lol) one chapter and an epilogue left.
> 
> No major warnings.
> 
> Huge thank you to my beta, misfaemy !

The days go on as they had before--before Armitage had met the Prince, before those lovely, all too short days at the Royal Ball.

Armitage rises early in the morning, before the sun does, and sets about on his chores, fighting past the lightheadedness he'd woken up with. He cooks breakfast for Lord Hux and his sons, baking fresh loaves of bread and frying eggs to go with them.

He sets the table and rings the bell to signal to his master that the food is ready. 

Only then does he slip back to the kitchen to clean the mess he'd made while cooking.

*

Days pass in this simple way.

Armitage does his best at suppressing his coughs and shivers. He curses himself, and the fact that he'd fallen in the horribly cold snow. Such a sad way for him to catch ill.

He scrubs the floor to the living room while Lord Hux and his sons visit some of the eligible young people they'd met at the Ball. He wrings the rag into the bucket of soapy water and continues as usual.

Nothing has changed, for better or worse.

Life continues as always, with no smiling Ren to greet him in his free hours, with no strong, warm arms to rest in.

When Lord Hux returns, he and his children leave tracks on the freshly washed floor.

"You missed a spot," Lord Hux says unkindly, setting Alastair's tittering laugh off.

*

"Ari?" Barnaby says cautiously, entering the kitchen on light feet.

Armitage shuts the water faucet and dries his hands. "Yes, sir?" he says. "What can I do?"

Barnaby looks troubled, his brows pinched low on his face. "I'd like to talk to you," he says quietly, eyes flicking back to the doorway.

"Is there anything I can do?" Armitage says. But he doesn't want to help Barnaby. Not today, not now, not so late at night. He's utterly exhausted, weary to the bone. His throat tickles in an odd way, making him hack far too loudly.

Barnaby presses his lips together. "How... how attached are you to the family?" he asks.

"I am a Life Debt," Armitage says, answering the ridiculous question. "What do you mean by--?"

"Father doesn't trust you anymore," Barnaby says quickly, his hesitation momentarily lost. He blinks away wetness. "He... is still mad at you for your... betrayal at the Ball. But what he wants to do is--"

He's cut off.

The door to the kitchen opens.

Lord Hux stands there, hair slightly disheveled. "Barnaby," he says, eyes landing on his son. "What are you doing here?"

Barnaby stands a little straighter. "I want Ari to do up my hair," he says. "Every day while the search is on. I do want to look my best for the ex-regent," he says, sure to sound as snobbish as he can.

"Hmm," Brendol says, looking suspicious of his own flesh and blood, as odd as that is. "Very well." He dismisses his son quietly. "Your duties for today are over."

"Yes sir," Armitage says, following Lord Hux to the servants quarters. He steps into the chilly room, not reacting as Brendol shuts the door and locks it. 

Instead he focuses on something he can deal with: the empty fireplace. Armitage kneels in front of his and sets about starting a small fire. He keeps spare logs of wood and tinder beside his fireplace, though so deep in winter his supplies are beginning to run short.

Once the fire's been lit, he lets himself relax, pulling the mattress on the floor closer to the fire.

If he closes his eyes and begins to doze, he can almost believe he's at the Ball again, tucked in Ben's tender embrace.

*

He wakes up, head light as it had been for the past few days. He's dizzy and slightly nauseous, his stomach threatening to rebel against him.

Armitage frowns. That won't do at all. 

He stands, dressing in a clean set of his servants uniform and pulling on his shoes. The door has been unlocked for him to set about his duties.

It's a struggle in the kitchen. The heat of the oven overwhelms him.

Armitage sits upon a stool and presses a handkerchief to his sweating forehead.

He cannot be sick. Not now, not ever.

He is simply weak now. The proof in it is in the hollowness he feels within his ribs when he devolves into a coughing fit.

*

He does up Barnaby's hair as the man had specifically asked for, as unusual as Barnaby asking for something could be. The man is silent as he winds Barnaby's hair into one braid at the nape of his neck. He is even more silent once the task is over.

"Ari," Barnaby says, catching his sleeve before Armitage can leave. “The Prince is looking for you.” He says so urgently, eyes bright and shining.

Armitage hesitates to answer.

“He must be looking for  _ you _ ,” Barnaby continues, shaking his head in confusion. “You’re the only one he wanted to dance with. We all saw you the second night.” He sighs softly, like someone lovelorn. “He never took his eyes off you. Not even for a second…”

"I don't know when he'll come to our house," Barnaby says, eyes nervously flicking back to the doorway, "but do you have any proof that you are The One."  He says the words slowly, with some reverence, with some jealousy.

Armitage shakes his head, looking at Barnaby with softened eyes. He'd never thought Barnaby would try to help, even in some silly way of his. "Barnaby," he says, reaching out. He places his hand on the man's shoulder. "I will not marry Ben. It wouldn't be proper for--"

"It would!" he yelps, interrupting and then looking guilty. Barnaby plays with a strand of dark hair, his eyes curious and wide. "It's love, isn't it? Love conquers all."

Armitage can't help but snort at that childish statement. Money. Money and power, those two things conquer all, in his experience.

"I am the child to a kitchen woman," Armitage says slowly. "An orphan with no status. A Life Debt. My status would drag down whoever I marry and sully their reputation. I will not make him suffer."

How Barnaby looks then: longing. 

Barnaby shakes his head, shaking any of that nonsense out of his brain. "You need proof of who you are," he says quietly, whispering. "Father has been talking."

Armitage snorts again, rolling his eyes. "What do you expect? What sort of proof?"

Barnaby shrugs, looking both helpless and frustrated with him. "I don't know," he says, whining. "Perhaps a shoe that he knows to be yours? Your feet are larger than both mine and Alastair's." He says so a little snootily.

Armitage sighs. "I didn't lose a shoe at the Ball, if that's what you want to know. Barnaby, I did your hair... Please just go and do whatever Lord Hux has planned for you today."

Barnaby chews on his bottom lip. "I warned you," he says gravely. "I warned you in advance."

"Yes, yes," sighs Armitage. He stands, having to pause as his vision swims. "Very well. I must be off on my other duties. Have a nice day."

Barnaby sticks out his tongue.

*

"You'll set an extra plate at dinner. We have a very special guest," Lord Hux instructs. "No iron tools. You'll polish our best silver for this, you hear me boy."

Armitage nods his head. "Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Armitage turns on his heel and leaves Lord Hux's study. 

A very special guest... It could very well be Ben.

He blinks, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing his eyes. He shudders with a sudden chill. All day long, it felt like ice and fire warred within his bones.

But it doesn't matter.

He returns to the kitchen, standing on a stool to reach for the silverware. It's tucked up, high in one of the upper cabinets. He takes the box in both hands and then...

His head swims and his vision fades. The stool underneath him wobbles and then--

Armitage comes crashing down onto the floor. The stool lands to one side of him, in one piece. The box that holds the silverware is not so lucky. In his fall, it's come open.

Forks and knives and spoons litter the floor.

Armitage sits up, feeling his head. He finds a bump from his fall and sighs.  It could have been worse.

He sets out to work, gathering all that's fallen and putting them back into the box. He withdraws tools and such for sharpening the knives and for polishing the whole set.

His head throbs as he works, but the pain is manageable. He's felt worse before.

*

Armitage cleans himself and dresses in a fresh set of his servant uniforms. The food is ready, sitting hot on the stovetop, and the table is made. 

Lord Hux sits at the head of it, Alastair to his right and Barnaby to Alastair's side. The seat to Lord Hux's left is left empty, for whatever guest they are to receive. 

Armitage had not been told what time the guest would arrive exactly, only that he would be here for dinner. He swallows dryly, finding his mouth to be parched. His knees wobble too, suddenly weak. Armitage catches himself on the edge of the countertop.

There is no knock on the door. No bell rings. 

Instead, the door opens all on its own.

Armitage stands straight and moves to stand before the door, ready to gather Ben's cloak and whatever else.

But it is not Prince Ben there.

An old man, skin dry and twisted stands there, a smile upon his skeletal face. He wears drab, grey clothing - nothing like the finery that Lord Hux and his sons wear.

"Hello there, boy," the old man croons, walking past Armitage without another thought.

Armitage is quick to gather himself and to follow. "Excuse me," he says, "sir. Are you Lord Hux's guest?"

The man smiles, showing off a missing tooth. "You're not a particularly bright one, are you?" he asks, not waiting for an answer. Armitage shudders at that, clenching his jaw to hold a retort back.

Lord Hux stands when the man comes into view.

"Mister Snoke," Brendol Hux greets, an awful amount of respect oozing from those very words. "How good of you to make it."

Snoke smiles again, all too easily. "The pleasure is mine." He fixes his dark, beady eyes on Alastair, looking hungry, like he'll devour the young man in two bites.

Armitage holds back yet another shudder. A suitor for Alastair, perhaps? He hates to even think of it.

"Armitage, go fetch our dinner," Lord Hux says, rolling his eyes.

"Yes sir," Armitage says, eager to escape to the relative safety of the overheated kitchen. He gathers the tray of sliced and buttered bread and a tray of peeled fruits, leaving the roasted duck for just a moment.

Snoke does not wait for the entire meal to be placed onto the table. Instead he eats, straight from the serving plates, with ravenous hunger.

Armitage struggles not to balk at the improper behavior. He pities Alastair in the moment, if this is the man he should marry. How dreadful!

He tries to return to the kitchen, to get started on the dishes, but he is not so fortunate.

"Wait," Snoke calls. "Armitage, was it?"

"Yes sir," Armitage says, hating the sound of his name in that creature's mouth.

"Armitage Hux," Snoke says, clicking his tongue.

_ That is not my name… _

He opens his mouth to say so but he cannot say a thing. He'd been lightheaded earlier, but now the pain of a migraine shoots up the left side of his brain.

Snoke clicks his tongue again, this time in disgust. "You've nearly ruined my Ben for me," he says, pointing one spindly finger out and drawing it back, in some sort of gross come-hither motion. 

Snoke twists in his seat, looking once again at Alastair.

This time, the young man has the sense to look afraid.

Snoke notices, smiling, and croons, "Oh, it won't hurt. Much."

He points the thin, boney finger out at Alastair, a bolt of pure darkness hitting Alastair square in the chest.

Both he and Armitage collapse, writhing in pain.

One the floor, Armitage looks at Alastair, sees his long golden hair turn a shade of orange, sees his facial features twist, until Alastair looks the same as Armitage.

And then he sees nothing at all, Armitage's whole world turning white.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd by misfaemy, who has saved this fic from So Many misspellings. Couldn't do it without her.
> 
> one last chapter after this! thank you so much for reading!
> 
> warning: Brendol (sort of?) gets what's coming to him, mild violence at the end.

 

"What do we know?" asks Phasma, as they ride through the Woods.

"His given name is Hux," Ben says. "Don't know how he spells it. He never said. He works for a family and... they definitely don't pay him enough."

Phasma frowns. "You don't know what family then?"

Ben shakes his head. It takes all his effort to not claw at his overlong hair. "Not at all," he says miserably.

"It'll be fine," Phasma says easily. "You'll get your true love's kiss and live happily ever after. I'm sure of it."

Ben scowls. They ride on.

*

The first day of searching is unsuccessful.

People let them in when they knock. Ben speaks with countless people, grilling them on who their servants are and where they live.

And yet none of them are Hux. None of them employ the man.

They return to the castle as the sun falls, bellies empty, bodies weary.

As they enter, a woman leaves, pulling her cloak around her shoulders, a fierce frown upon her face.

"Lady Sloane," Leia says, marching right after her. "I demand you to stop and give me answers."

Sloane turns upon her heel, cloak flapping about her. She wears a military uniform, pins from both the fallen Empire and Alderaan pinned to her chest. "My Queen," Sloane says, scathingly, without fear, "I gave you answers, answers clearly you did not wish to hear."

Phasma lets out a low whistle, looking Sloane up and down.

Ben nearly groans, pinching the bridge of his throat. Of all the times for Phasma to start her flirtations...

Sloane throws a glance at them over her shoulder and then pauses. "Ah," she says, "Prince Ben."

"I'm a prince no more--"

"Prince Ben, Captain Phasma," Sloane says, handing them an envelope. "I'm inviting you for afternoon tea tomorrow. Please be at my estates at noon sharp." With that, she excuses herself, slipping out of the castle and into the night.

Leia looks at them, lips pursed. "Don't tell me you're actually going to meet with her," she says, sighing. "You know she was an extremist."

"Didn't you lead the Resistance?" Ben says.

Leia looks like he's stabbed her, eyes so bright and raw with betrayal. "That's different."

"Okay," Ben says weakly. He’s flooded with guilt.

"I'm sorry, my Queen," Phasma says, taking the envelope from Ben's hands and feeling the fine material of it, slipping it into a pocket. "But it'd be terribly rude to refuse Lady Sloane's invitation."

Leia doesn't look impressed by all this. "I could assign a new Captain of the Guards," she says flatly, going after Phasma's life's work and ambition.

"I'm the best you have," Phasma purrs. "Don't worry, my Queen. The Empire has fallen and with it so has Sloane's hope for a revival. I'm sure we'll talk of pleasant things, like--"

Ben slaps a hand over Phasma's mouth, afraid for what might just fall out.

Leia crosses her arms over her chest. She looks up at Ben, meeting his warm, brown eyes. "Just what are you trying to do?" she asks. "I've heard reports of you going door to door. Have you given up your title to become a traveling merchant, Ben?"

She's found out so soon, far sooner than Ben believed she would.

Ben scowls. He doesn't know how, but it was probably Poe.  _ He _ finds out everything for Ben’s mother, the little snitch. Ben shakes his head. 

Find Hux first.

Then confront Poe.

*

Phasma is far too happy to see Lady Sloane.

When the woman opens the door to let them in (which is quite the shocking and improper thing for a noblewoman to do), Phasma leans in, pressing a kiss to Sloane's cheek.

Sloane raises one brow at that, but says nothing of it. Instead, she turns on her heel. "Do follow me," Sloane says casually. "We're having winterberry tea, imported from Arkanis."

"Sounds delightful," Phasma says.

Sloane leads them to a neat little room, walls covered with bookshelves. A fireplace burns at one corner, heating the room. At the very center is a small, circular table, with a teapot and three cups assembled, a strong, sweet scent hanging in the air.

Phasma sits first, not waiting for their host or an invitation.

Sloane follows, taking time to pour tea into everyone's cup. "There's sugar and cream on the table, if you take your tea that way," she says, tilting her chin in the direction of the two little containers.

Ben drops three cubes of sugar in his tea and watches as they dissolve, pouting all the while.

"Not to be ungrateful, Lady Sloane," Phasma says, taking a long sip of the tea. "But you did not invite us simply for tea, correct?"

She smiles, even as she tilts the cup to drink. "You're right, Captain Phasma, unfortunately," Sloane says. "I'm here to discuss a young man that Prince Ben just so happens to have an eye on."

He nearly shatters the cup. It falls from his grasp, landing roughly on the table, spilling out what remains of his drink. "What?" Ben says, his heart leaping to his throat. "Y-you know him? You know Hux?"

Sloane raises a brow at that. "Hux?" she repeats. "Do you happen to mean Lord Hucts?"

Ben cannot find his words. He simply sits there, flabbergasted.

It's Phasma who gathers her wit fastest. "So, your little boytoy never gave you his real name?" she says slowly, frowning. Then she laughs. “You practically had the name of his employer all along. That’s rich.”

Ben dabs at the mess he's made with his handkerchief, avoiding both Phasma and Sloane's gaze.

“The boy’s name is Armitage," Sloane says easily. "He is the only servant to Lord Hucts. I can give you the address to the man's estates, just be wary. That man is scum.” She watches Ben, makes sure the former prince meets her dark and decisive eyes. "Make sure to find evidence to lock him up for a good, long time. That’s my only request.”

"How do you know his name?" Ben asks.

Sloane sits back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. "I have my sources," she says simply.

Ben nods. He leaves his handkerchief on the table, where it grows sodden and pink with the fruity tea. "We'll take the address and be on our way," he says, feeling for where he'd clipped his sword, thumbing the cracked kyber crystal on its hilt.

Perhaps he'll be using it.

Sloane rings a bell and a servant appears--an older woman with tightly bound grey hair. Slowly, she gathers up the teacups and mostly full teapot.

They’re gone before the servant is done.

*

His Armitage— no, his Hux, didn't live too close to the river where they met.

If anything, it is a bit of a walk through the Woods. A painful and cold walk now, Ben thinks, remembering the sorry state of his shoes.

As if hearing Ben's thoughts, Falcon tosses her head in displeasure. Ben soothes her, running his hand across her flanks. "Easy there," he murmurs.

The fence that surrounds Lord Brendol Hucts’s property is iron, like any other faerie-repelling fence. The gate is slightly opened.

Phasma disembarks from her horse, Saber, who whinnies softly with worry. “It’ll be fine,” Phasma promises the horse, approaching the gate and opening it wider. She turns to him, sweeping her arm in a wide, welcoming motion. “After you, my Prince.”

Ben gets off of Falcon. “Stay,” he tells the horses sternly.

They walk through a shoveled path all the way to the entrance of the house.

“Do you think they’re expecting us?” Ben asks. His heart pounds. His fists clench. He has half a mind to punch Lord Hucts already and he hasn’t even met the man yet.

“Maybe,” Phasma says. “But how easily will they hand over the servant?”

Ben knocks on the door—three sharp raps.

Like someone had been waiting just for them, it swings open.

Ben takes a step back, mouth dropping.

“Benny,” the man says sweetly, batting his eyes. “Do come in. I suspect Father has much to speak with you about.”

The man is the mirror image of Hux.

But  _ this _ Hux still has his long, red hair. This Hux is free of bruises and cuts. This Hux is wearing fine, delicate clothing, clothing the nobility had favored at the Ball.

So it  _ cannot _ be his Hux.

Somehow, miraculously, this is all a ruse.

"Benny?" Phasma repeats, scrunching her nose in disgust. But she doesn't say anything else, though she must know this is a... really good imposter. (At least by physical appearance...  Hux had never called him anything so sweet. It’d feel weird if he started now.)

The false-Hux grabs Ben by his wrist and drags him into the house.

It's a modest place, very clean and tidy, if not a little empty.

"Father," false-Hux calls, "Prince Ben is here."

"I'm not a prince anymore. I gave up the throne," Ben says.

False-Hux looks up at him, pouting and shaking his head. "But you've found me. We can be together. We can rule Alderaan together. Won't that be nice, Benny?"

"Stop calling me that," Ben grumbles.

"Ala-- Ari," a man says. He's young, with ringlets of thick, dark hair. He looks rather spooked, with large watery eyes. He smiles weakly when he sees Ben. "O-oh, hello your Highness," the man says, sweeping into an awkward bow.

Phasma raises one brow. The new man doesn't greet her whatsoever.

"Barnaby, you can get their cloaks," false-Hux says, shooing him with his free hand. With the other hand, he clings tightly to Ben, like some snake. 

"Yes of course," Barnaby says quietly, holding out his arms to accept Phasma and Ben's cloak.

"That won't be ne--" Ben starts.

Phasma cuts him off, pulling her red cloak from her shoulders. "Don't be rude, Ben," she says easily.

Ben frowns and pulls off his fur-lined cloak, handing it to Barnaby.

"Mr Barnaby," Phasma says, giving the shorter boy a rather intimidating look, "please allow me to accompany you."

The boy, Ben thinks, lacks a spine.

He nods quickly. "Very well. Please, this way if you would."

False-Hux takes Ben the opposite direction, towards a rather barren dining room. Two men are seated at a long dining room table, the elderly, shriveled one at its head. The other man has a head of thinning red hair and an oddly familiar face.

"Father," false-Hux says loudly, "the prince is here."

Lord Brendol Hucts is not an impressive looking specimen. His hair is messy. His eyes are red-tinged and tired. But he stands quickly, knocking his knees against the table. He smiles and Ben hates him.

"Prince Ben," Brendol says, simpering like the dog he is. "When I heard that you were enamored with my son, I was very concerned. You see, we are a simple family... we only wish to carry on our humble existence."

"But who am I to stand in the way of true love?" Brendol says sweetly, as if he doing Ben a huge favor. "I give you my blessing."

"I don't need your blessing," Ben snarls.

Brendol blinks, the plastered smile twitching. "Excuse me, your Highness. I believe I've misheard you."

"I am not here to marry this man," Ben says, retrieving his arm from the false-Hux, much to his disappointment. "I am hear to ask about your history of servants."

"Oh," Brendol says, waving a hand. "We have no servants. We haven't been able to afford them since the days of the Empire, you see. The housework is shared evenly among the boys. Just promise not to tell little Ari's mother-in-law that."

The false-Hux tosses his head back as he laughs, loud and obnoxious, while the grandfather’s face splits into one ugly smile.

Ben doesn't see what's so funny about any of this.

"I have it on good word that you're lying to me," he grits. "I don't know how you disguised this man as my Hux, but did you think I was so shallow to simply know him by his looks?"

"Prince Ben, who--?" Brendol starts.

"Hey," Phasma interrupts, hand upon the hilt of her sword. Barnaby, the other son of Lord Hucts, is nowhere to be seen. Ben is afraid for what he might see if she draws the blade. "Ben, you're needed in the other room. I'll take care of this." She throws a smile, as sickeningly sweet as one of Brendol's own, at the man. "You understand, yes, my Lord?"

"Understand what?" Brendol says, pressing his thin lips together.

"You're under arrest," Phasma says all to kindly, grinning with her teeth showing. "And if you try to run, I will not be afraid to use force."

The old man stands up, wobbling on his feet. The light shines oddly off the top of his bald head. "Prince Ben," he says, gripping the arms to the chair tightly. "You are trying to tear this family apart with your nonsense." The old man raises a hand and something within Ben screams:  _ danger, danger, danger _ .

"What the fuck are you?" Ben spits.

Phasma turns her attention to the old man, pulling out her sword, and readying herself for anything.

"I wish you'd consider me a friend," the old man says. His face twist, growing distorted and scarred, skin becoming as grey as death. The old man clucks his tongue slowly. "We could have ruled the world together, but you had to say something..." His head glows a hazy red color, everyone else in the room freezing in place like terrifying statues.

"No matter," he continues, eyes becoming black as pitch as the sclera fades. "You'll just have to forget."

The ring on Ben's finger burns something fierce.

"You," Ben swears. "You're Snoke. You cursed me."

"I didn't curse you," Snoke says in his defense. "I saved you from the lying faeries of these Woods. How long did they try to pass off that little bastard as something he's not?"

Ben's heart leaps in his chest.

Hux.

Ben withdraws his sword from its sheath, all the while taking careful steps backwards.

"Captain Phasma?" calls Barnaby from behind Ben. "I think I will be needing assistance."

Ben does not turn away from Snoke's terrifying form. He continues backwards, ever slowly, until he is out of the room and in the halls.

He breaks into a sprint, running to where he'd heard Barnaby.

"A-ah," the man squeaks, flinching back. "Prince Ben? Where's the Captain?"

Barnaby stands there, pale and drawn, with someone leaning heavily on him.

Someone Ben could recognize in a heartbeat.

"Hux," Ben breathes, nearly dropping his sword. "Oh, Hux."

Hux is dressed in the servant's uniform Ben has always seen him in. He's hardly conscious, his head lolling on his neck, legs barely holding out as Barnaby practically drags him closer to Ben.

"What's wrong?" Barnaby says.

"What the fuck is that creature in your house?" Ben snarls. He sheathes his sword, all so that he can hold Hux. He's burning up and shivering, smelling of sickness.

Barnaby blinks. "...Armitage isn't really a creature," he says slowly, looking at least a little nervous.

“No!” Ben yells. “That grey-skinned thing in the house. That  _ faerie _ .”

Barnaby flinches.

“…Ren?” Hux mutters, leaning back against Ben’s chest. “Is this a dream?”

Ben huffs. “More like a nightmare.”

Hux makes a soft sound and shuts his eyes once more.

Ben shakes him. “Hux, Hux, please stay awake.”

“I’m tired,” Hux says, turning so that he can fit his head against the hollow of Ben’s throat. His eyes are half-lidded and hazy. “Just… five minutes…”

“No,” Ben says sternly, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him once more.

“No, Prince Ben,” comes Snoke’s gravely voice. He appears right before Ben, Hux, and Barnaby, looking all too proud of himself. “Little Armitage needs his sleep, you see. Humans grow tired and weak in the cold, and I’m afraid he’s overworked himself too after catching his death.”

Ben scrambles back, pulling Hux with him. He tries to pull his sword from his sheath, but he doesn’t want to risk hurting his beloved. Hux doesn’t struggle in his grasp; he remains limp and placid at a doll.

Even worse, Barnaby reaches out and grabs Ren’s shirt, gripping until his knuckles turn white.

“How could you betray your father, Barnaby?” Snoke says. His words dig live knives.

Barnaby cowers and makes it difficult for Ben to do much of anything.

But if they could run… and shut the iron gate… would Snoke be trapped inside? ...But that would mean the death of Phasma. Brendol, he could excuse. The other man too. But Phasma. Dear Phasma. Unacceptable.

Hux opens his eyes once more, blinking groggily.

“Hux,” Ben says quietly, holding him tightly, “could you do me a favor?”

He makes a soft, sleepy sort of sound. “What is it?”

“Take the ring off my finger,” Ben says, meeting Snoke’s black eyes.

Then, too many things happen at once.

Hux takes the ring off all too easily, like nothing had held it in place. Like there’d been no curse, no spell in the first place.

Snoke leaps at them in the very same moment, jaw unhinging, like a wild, ancient animal before its prey.

And Mitaka—Mitaka, the faerie that Ben had hurt terribly with a ring of iron—springs out of Ben’s pocket, fully formed, holding out a hand and blocking Snoke’s attack.

“You aren’t welcome here,” Mitaka spits, skin glowing like firelight, hair bristling wildly, feet not quite touching the ground.

“I thought that you had died,” says Snoke, having the audacity to smile.

“The King of the Woods will destroy you,” Mitaka says. He’s shaking furiously.

Ben holds Hux closer, closer. Barnaby trembles beside them.

Outside, the iron fence shakes and rattles against a sudden onslaught of wind.

The King of the Woods is here.

*

It’s hard to explain after, just what exactly had happened.

A faerie, crowned with a silver circlet and long, ginger hair, had strode in, followed shortly by a blond, ghostly man in black armor. “Snoke,” the faerie said, standing between the grey-skinned creature. “Begone. You are not wanted here. No one has use for you.”

There’d been fantastically bright lights and sounds that Ben could not describe for the life of him, something ancient and bizarre occurring in front of them.

But when everything calms, there is no Snoke to be found.

“Techie,” Hux murmurs after, legs like jelly, as he tries to walk up to the faerie. Ben supports him, letting him lean on his side.

The King of the Woods—Techie—turns back and smiles. Gently, he touches Hux’s cheek. “Sleep,” he says. “You need your rest.”

Hux falls asleep and his knees give up under him, bones becoming like jelly.

Quickly, Ben scoops him up and carries him, like a newly married bride, holding him closer, closer. “Who are you?” he asks.

Techie smiles. “The King,” he says.

“Why did you help us?”

“Mitaka had owed Armitage Hucts a favor,” Techie says softly.

“But… I think it is even now.

Mitaka goes to stand beside his king, something too perfect about him. His skin is shiny and new, unnatural. 

“You said Hucts,” Barnaby says, drawn and pale. “Armitage… Hucts? Is he...?”

“Your brother,” Ben finishes, looking from Armitage to Barnaby. He can see some resemblance in their noses, in their cheeks. 

“Half-brother,” Mitaka cuts in. “Same father, different mothers, that’s important. My King, there were others under Snoke’s thrall.”

“Let them be free,” Techie says.

And so it is.

No one acknowledges the blond human-looking man at Techie’s side. Ben can see right through him and his simple armor.

“What is he?” Ben asks, jerking his chin in the unnamed man’s direction.

“There’s no one there,” Barnaby says. And then he shivers, like there’s a draft. “Don’t scare me,” he says in a small voice. “Ghosts could only make this day worse!”

“Ben!” Phasma yells, charging, sword drawn, fierce and ready for a fight. She stops, staring at the strange scene. “Is everything alright?” she asks, looking suspiciously at Techie, at his molten eyes.

“We’ll be taking our leave now,” the King of the Woods says, a coy smile on his lips. He touches Mitaka’s shoulder, guiding the faerie away, even as he throws longing looks over his shoulder.

“Come on Phasma,” Ben says. “Better catch Brendol before he runs.”

She smirks. 

*

In the end, Phasma had only watched, holding onto the unconscious Armitage Hucts, as Ben choked Brendol to near unconsciousness. She’d clapped after and Ben had bowed, mockingly.

Alastair—the other son of Brendol, the favorite of their father—had wept out of control, shaking his head, and denying his part to their entire scheme, not bothering to weep for the injuries his father suffered.

“You’re going to jail for a long, long time,” Ben tells Brendol, as the older man lies at his feet, rubbing his sore throat. “You’ll never see the light of day. I’ll make sure of it.”

For his Hux. 

For his Armitage Hucts.

He’ll forge a happily ever after all their own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hux has a very small part in this chapter, but he's still very sick. Nursemaid Kylo to the rescue.
> 
> next and final chapter will be Hux's PoV


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for the final chapter!
> 
> Early final update!

He blinks himself awake, sitting up in a rush, blankets pooling around his waist.

"Shh, shh... take your time," Ben tells him, sitting at his bedside, deep, dark smudges below his eyes. 

"Ben?" Armitage says. "Or Ren." He snorts, scooting away from the man. "I can't believe you didn't tell me the truth. You could have at least trusted me not to tell anyone."

Ben reaches out, brushing Armitage's hair away from his sweaty forehead. "I didn't want to scare you off," he says, low and mournful. "I was selfish... I wanted to be with you, and put my needs ahead of your own. I apologize for that." 

On the bedside table, a bowl sits. Ben dips a towel into it, dabbing at Armitage's forehead.

"You can call me Ren," he says gently. "That's the name I'll use from now on, serving with the Knights of Ren, as a hunter to Alderaan."

Armitage settles back into the plush pillow and lets Ben take care of him. He groans, closing his eyes. "What happened?"

"How much do you remember?" Ben asks carefully.

"Snoke," Armitage spits, venom coating the word. "That snake charmed Alastair to look like me."

"I think they wanted Alastair to marry me and for me to reclaim the throne," Ben says. "What they didn't realize is that I know you. I know you, your laugh, your smile. Alastair couldn't come close." Ben rinses the cloth and dabs down the length of Armitage's throat.

Armitage laughs. "I suppose they thought you liked me for my appearance."

Ben hums. "I suppose," he says. "Lucky I know more than just your face."

"Where am I?" Armitage asks.

"I took you to the palace. This is my room," Ben says. "You were very sick. But... your fever's broken and a Jedi saw to you." He takes Armitage's hand and presses the back of it to his lips, pressing a kiss to Armitage's knuckles.

"What will we do now?" Armitage says, cheeks heating at that gesture.

"Whatever you'd like," Ben says, placing Armitage's hand back onto the heavy blankets. "If... you'd like to live with me, I have a house... within the Woods, near the other hunters. If you'd rather your own space, Lady Sloane has offered to sponsor you."

"Sponsor me?" Armitage repeats, hating how dumb he must sound.

Ben doesn't even look annoyed with him. That's the worst thing. Instead Ben only smiles, love, love of all things, reflected in his warm, brown eyes. "She'd take you in, as one of her own... hire tutors and tailors. All of those things you never got to experience, even as the son of a Lord."

Perhaps it is just the thing he's always wanted. A tutor... to teach him to read, years late. And then... and then, he could find the book his mother wrote by hand, hidden somewhere in Lord Hucts's library.

Lord Hucts's library.

His heart drops suddenly and his face must show it.

"What's wrong?" Ben says, taking Armitage's hand and massaging it, trying to soothe him in some small way.

"Lord Hucts," Armitage says. "He-- he had a library."

Ben nods.

Armitage swallows, throat aching. "There's one book in there that belongs to me. I-- I must find it. I must be allowed back--"

"Armitage," Ben says, smoothing his red hair. "Lord Hucts has been arrested for money laundering, smuggling, and counterfeiting goods. His estates have been suspended from him. It belongs to the Queen now." He kisses Armitage's hand once more. "All the books will be yours. I'll convince my mother."

Armitage feels his mouth open.

"I-- I cannot repay you for--" he begins.

Ben shakes his head. "You don't have to repay me. I just want you to be happy, alright?"

And it's all too much to bear.

"Just rest for now," Ben says. "Lady Sloane and her servants will come to visit soon enough. She's... sure an interesting character. Phasma favors her."

Try as he might, Armitage cannot fight his eyes from closing. 

Ben keeps on talking, as if afraid that this is his last opportunity. “I can finally place your accent,” he says, running his hand gently through Armitage’s hair. “Arkanis. I can’t believe you’re from Arkanis…”

Ben talks more, talks endlessly, like water spouting from a fountain.

Armitage falls into a deep and dream-filled slumber, visions of faeries dancing, of Ben dressed in all white, the King of the Forest seated in a wooden throne, a Knight of Ren at his side.

 

*

*

*

_ Five years later… _

 

“We cannot miss the festival!” Alastair says, quickly pinning feather-shaped accessories to his hair. As much as he misses living in luxury, depending entirely on his father’s falsely attained wealth, living an honest life is good as well.

His wife laughs, picking up his mask and trying it on, the bold greens and blues going well with her rainbow gown. “Worried that the faeries will strike you down for daring to be late?”

“Marybel, please,” Alastair says, trying and failing to get his mask back. “You know my history with faeries.”

“To think such a wicked lord became a baker,” she says, twining herself in his arms. “And to think your brother ran away with one!”

Alastair rolls his eyes, leaning into Marybel’s embrace. “I think secretly both of my brothers just wanted to live lonely lives in the Woods,” he grumbles.

“That’s the spirit,” Marybel says, poking the tip of his nose and smiling broadly. “Well then,” she says, unwinding herself from his body, “let’s get going, Mr Peacock.”

“After you,” Alastair says, bowing, “Miss Parrot.”

*

Barnaby had believed in true love, like in all the fanciful books he’d read in his life. But he had always thought love—true and ordained by the stars—would only happen to his brother.

He never once thought a faerie would become smitten with him.

In the King of the Wood’s court, things are different and strange, but pleasant all the same. The trees are heavy with snow as winter settles in.

Many faeries take different forms, but most trot the land as massive deer.

King Techie is kind to have even taken him in. It’s hard to believe that Mitaka begged his case.

“You’re thinking too much,” Mitaka says, peeling himself from the air. His skin glows, otherwordly, and his eyes twinkle, like all the stars in the sky. “Care to share your thoughts?”

Barnaby leans against Mitaka. He doesn’t feel cold, not now, not anymore, but the simple warmth exchanged excites him every time. “Nothing much, Taka,” he says. “Just wondering how Ari and Alastair are doing…”

Mitaka smiles, guiding him along the forest path, stepping between faerie rings and overgrown branches. “They’ll be found at the festival, I’m sure,” he says, running a hand through Barnaby’s hair, enchanting it into braids as he goes. “What should we go as?”

Barnaby giggles. “Can we be faeries?” he suggests.

Mitaka smiles, unsurprised.

“Sure.”

*

Brendol Hucts was born for something better than this, better than this filthy cell.

He sits upon a thin cot, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the toilet.

All is quiet.

How he hates the quiet.

Thick iron bars block most sunlight. What little trickles in is pitiful.

He rolls over on the cot and shuts his eyes.

*

Falcon trots through the snow, noisy as ever.

Armitage sits, his back pressed to Ren’s chest, eyes shut. He jerks awake when the horse reaches a cobbled road.

“It’s okay,” Ren says, voice a deep rumble, sounding perfect against Armitage’s skin. One strong arm is wrapped about Armitage’s waist, keeping him steady. “I got you.”

Armitage groans a little. “How far are we?” he says, rubbing at one of his eyes.

“Not too far,” Ren says, kissing Armitage’s temple.

It’s been a good few years—years in which Armitage decided to regrow his hair. Long and well cared for, with the best shampoos and soaps Ren could find, Armitage’s hair spills to his waist, longer than ever. The years have been kind too; Armitage has finally gained enough weight; Ren had seen that happen, perhaps being too generous with sweets now and then.

For the festival, they wear matching costumes. Ren sits comfortably in a heavier version of his hunter’s tunic and cloak. Armitage is dressed as a faerie, in white trousers and a nearly sheer shirt, a white jacket draped across his shoulders.

Within Ren’s pack, he hides a cloak, an anniversary present for his husband. A warm cloak made of white fox fur, the animals having been caught and slaughtered by Ren and sewn mostly by his hand.

(Alastair had helped. A lot. He was the one who’d created the perfect design, even if he couldn’t help himself from sniping at Ren’s clumsy pinpricked fingers.)

“Have you read anything interesting lately?” Ren says, whispering in Armitage’s ear.

He squirms, face heating. Ren isn’t able to hold back his grin at causing such reactions. Armitage sighs. “As a certified scholar of history, I do tend to read a lot. What would you be interested in hearing?”

Ren laughs. “Whatever interests you, Armie.”

“Very well,” Armitage says. He squirms in the saddle, all nerves. “I came across a local legend. Once upon a time, after the Knights of Ren were chosen by their Goddess, their first master was drawn into the Woods.”

“Oooh,” Ren can’t help but say, “I love that one.”

Falcon trots on, slowly approaching the peasants’ gathering place, music and cheer lifted up, up, up into the air.

*

*

*

*

*

_ The End. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading. It's been a long six months, but writing this fic has helped to make time fly for me.
> 
> Thanks to misfaemy, who's caught so many errors (and many strange paragraph breaks).
> 
> Thanks to everyone who ever commented. Reading the comments helped me to write, especially when motivation was lacking! 
> 
> You can find me at gaygalaxyguy.tumblr.com (I'd love some more kylux mutuals)
> 
> Here's all the art and moodboards made for this fic. Many thanks and love for the artists who took time to make something for this fic! It means a lot to me!!
> 
> http://gaygalaxyguy.tumblr.com/post/158551139557/if-the-slipper-fits-a-kylux-cinderella-au  
> http://gaygalaxyguy.tumblr.com/post/154956550235/if-the-slipper-fits-a-kylux-cinderella-au  
> (these first two are by me so that's cheating a little lol)
> 
> http://ee-void.tumblr.com/post/157698495050/ren-jumps-into-the-pool-of-water-that-collects-and  
> http://ee-void.tumblr.com/post/158480916440/hux-in-an-outfit-from-gaygalaxyguys-fic-if-the  
> http://ee-void.tumblr.com/post/159085846785/quick-moodboard-for-gaygalaxyguys-fic-if-the  
> http://ee-void.tumblr.com/post/161276044485/a-scene-from-16th-chapter-of-if-the-slipper-fits  
> http://ee-void.tumblr.com/post/161286268095/armitage-sees-green-red-tinged-eyes-first-so  
> (Martin has been very kind for all the art!!)
> 
> http://niibeth.tumblr.com/post/158272979288/sad-stoic-hux-from-if-the-slipper-fits-by  
> (one of my favorite scenes!! Hux looks so wistful and pretty.)
> 
> http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/post/158342899836/cinderella-au-kylux-by-flukeoffate-on  
> http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/post/158459401461/winter-hunt-dance-by-flukeoffate-well-then-would  
> http://flukeoffate.tumblr.com/post/158936864457/a-time-lapse-video-of-my-art-for-the-cinderella  
> (I gasped when I saw the first picture by flukeoffate!)
> 
> Everyone was so kind and I hope you'll love the art as much as I do!


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